The Locked Room
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Things are not always as they appear.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **The characters are not mine and I make no profit from them. All incidents and characters within are fictional and depict no person, living or dead.

**Author's note: **This story first appeared as an offering in the STAR for BK auction last year. Many, _many_ thanks to those who donated.

Hardcastle's deceased son was first mentioned in the episode 'Man in a Glass House' by mobster Joe Cadillac, in a plea to Hardcastle for his assistance in saving Cadillac's own son. The judge was obviously affected by the request and helped the mob boss, but he didn't provide Mark, or the viewers, with even so much as the name of his dead child.

Thanks goodness for fan fiction. Liz Tucker named him Tommy, and Tommy he has remained in nearly every mention of the boy across twenty-four years of stories. His fate, and the reverberations thereof, have provided a raft of stories. Every time I sat down to write this one, I'd think, _Well, what's the point?_ But, as you see, I finally threw my two cents in. It's mostly because I love a mystery, and a man who refuses to divulge even the name of one of the most important people in his life is being manifestly mysterious.

This is very AU, also there is a bit of bad language in part three.

**The Locked Room**

By L. M. Lewis

"_I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; _

_and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in."_ Virginia Woolfe

**Part I--Research**

Hardcastle's collection of law books usually sufficed for the majority of things Mark had to look up. Sometimes, if something wasn't in the books, it was the judge himself who was the repository of what he needed. Faster, too, and with enough sharp asides to make the information stick. But occasionally there were things outside the norm; either that, or the guy looked busy.

In this case it was both. Professor Sturgis had asked him to lend a hand with the preparation for a summer colloquium on early California law and Hardcastle was up in Fresno for the weekend. No problem, McCormick thought. He had his shopping list—handed over by the professor—that and an evening to devote to the cause.

Friday nights were quiet in the law library. He set up shop near the computer catalog, and gradually worked his way down the list, filing out his request slips as he went. He was nearly halfway down when he hit a snag.

He frowned. The system was new, and far from foolproof. No listing didn't necessarily mean it wasn't there. He gathered up slips and list and strolled over to the information desk, hoping for one of the less dragon-like guardians of the library.

His luck held. It was Marguerite, and she wasn't even a dragon-in-training. She actually seemed to believe library materials were intended to be used, and didn't classify law students as The Enemy.

"This one," he held out the list with the mystery item circled, "no luck."

She peered at Sturgis' slightly chicken scratchy notations. "Oh, some of the older materials haven't been accessioned into the computer system yet." She turned to her left and reached for a card catalog drawer, opening it and flipping through the contents with practiced ease. "There it is," she glanced over her shoulder. That's the problem—that one's not in the stacks. See, it's marked 'HMR'. That's special collections."

He mouthed the letters to himself and then asked, "This building?"

"Yes," she nodded, "up in the south tower. It's nineteenth-century law texts. Some history and political science. Access by appointment."

Mark looked disappointed.

"Oh," Marguerite smiled, "it's not like you have to ask two weeks in advance ." she looked around at the nearly deserted library, flipped a sign over that said, 'The Librarian Will Return Shortly,' and rattled in her drawer, pulling out a key ring. "Come on, I can show you."

He followed her back into the bowels of the building, down a narrow corridor, and up a flight of stairs. Next followed another corridor, with closed, dark-wood doors on either side—most bearing plaques of dedication. She led him to the end of the hallway, to a double door which was arched at the top but otherwise on generally the same plan as the others. It was only on close approach that he could see the raised lettering on the brass plate affixed next to that door. It stopped him frozen, while his guide continued forward, key in hand, reaching for the lock.

She had the doorknob in hand and was opening the door before she seemed to notice he was no longer at her heel. It must have been the expression on his face; as she turned to look at him she frowned lightly with concern, and said, "Are you all right?"

He nodded, dragging his eyes down from the name on the sign. "'The Hardcastle _Memorial_ Collection'?"

She nodded back, flipping on the light switch and stepping in. He followed, still frowning. The room was small, and obviously intended to be a practical repository. Two walls were lined with cherry-wood barrister's bookshelves. Through the glass fronts Mark could see the contents were old, leather-bound volumes. But what drew his eye was the fourth wall, the one opposite the door. There was a narrow table, and to one side of that a comfortable wingback chair—it might have been the perfect match for the ones in the judge's study. On the wall above the table was another plaque, this one in bronze bas-relief with enough patina to indicate a passage of time since it had been hung.

The woman had set to work, looking for the proper volume. He stepped past her, drawn to the memorial plaque as if by an irresistible force which had overcome an almost equal amount of foreboding.

He saw what he had expected to see from the moment he'd had the meaning of the initials 'HMC' deciphered for him. He had no idea if the depiction was an accurate one; he'd never seen a photo of Milton C. Hardcastle's only son as he'd looked in uniform.

To the right of the portrait, the epitaph was simple and to the point: In Memorium, Thomas C. Hardcastle, 1954-1973. No poetry, not even a pithy quote—no explanation at all but the dates that bracketed his life. To the otherwise uninformed, the rest of the story was deducible only from the military collar and cap. There was a Marine emblem, but even that seemed to be a reluctant afterthought, small, and added below the inscription.

He became aware that Marguerite was saying something to him—that maybe she'd been speaking for a few moments. He blinked and tore his gaze from the plaque.

"Sorry," he fumbled, "what?"

"They're all reference books—because of their age, you know. We ask you to use them here." She nodded at the volume in her hand. "This is the one you were looking for."

He looked down at it, then took it, almost having forgotten why he'd come. He thought Professor Sturgis would understand that. He half-wondered if the man had had a notion about where the book would turn up when he'd added it to the list. But, no, that was a level of suspicion verging on paranoia.

"'Here'," he said, "meaning 'in this room'?"

She nodded. He looked up at the plaque one more time, then shook his head and gently handed the book back. "I think I'll need to come back." He hesitated and then added, "I don't think I have enough time right now. Sorry to have been a nuisance."

"It's no problem." She shrugged. "I don't come up here very much. There's not a lot of call for these older materials." She shelved the book again and closed the glass door on that section, dusting her hands off lightly.

Mark stepped back to let her pass. He looked at the bronze eyes looking back out at him, the all too brief dates alongside them.

"Do you know when this collection was donated?" He'd asked it abruptly, almost surprising himself. "When the room was dedicated?"

She glanced over at the plaque herself, as if to refresh her memory, or maybe she'd never noticed it before. "Oh," she said, "not long after he died, I'd imagine. It's been here since before I came, and I started in '78. She was looking at the name and the dates. "Vietnam, I think," she said pensively. "He was young. It's strange to think of them—the ones who died like that, so young. He'd be, let's see . . . thirty-four now."

Mark nodded.

The librarian was still looking at the plaque. She'd probably never really looked at it closely. "And he must have been one of the last, I mean, if it _was_ Vietnam." She frowned. "It was mostly over in '73. What a pity, to be one of the last."

Mark wasn't sure about that—whether it made any difference to be first, or last, or one of the thousands in between, but now that she'd drawn his attention to it, he remembered that interlude; there'd been some sort of peace. "It _was _Vietnam," he said quietly.

"I suppose." She ushered him through the door and reached for the light switch. "Maybe he was a student here. No," she corrected herself, "not if he was already in the war. Too young for both. And why a bunch of old law books?"

"His father was a judge."

"_Ah_, that'd explain it," she said. "Though I can't imagine many nineteen-year-olds who'd want to be remembered with of a roomful of old books." She smiled. "And I _like_ books." She closed the door and turned the key in the lock, then pulled it out and slipped it into her pocket.

She gave it a sharp nod of her chin as she turned. "Now that you know your way around, when you want to use it, just stop off at the desk and we can sign you in."

Mark smiled pensively as she ducked away, in a hurry to get back to her deserted post. He was left standing alone in the corridor. He looked up one more time at the sign over the door. It had been an unexpected encounter, but only one in a series that he had stumbled into, unawares, over the past four years.

From the first time he'd heard of the existence of Hardcastle's son, only a few weeks after he'd moved into the gatehouse at Gulls Way, he'd realized there was a Tom-sized hole in the fabric of the place. He had repeatedly come up to the edges of it, without ever getting a clear notion of what had once been there. Now he had discovered another part of the perimeter—1973—that, and the issue raised by the very observant Marguerite.

Mark plunged his hand into his pocket, encountering the slips he'd laboriously filled out. He supposed he ought to head down to the call desk and hand them over; he might still salvage something from this evening. He retraced his steps down the corridor and stairs, and back to the lobby. He made it as far as the desk. He even stood there for few seconds, hand still in his pocket. The annoying, niggling thought—the year of Tom Hardcastle's death—must've clouded his face. The librarian stationed there gave him an odd look and pointed to the sign that said last requests must be in one hour before the library closed. He glanced up at the clock and realized he'd missed the deadline by five minutes.

He smiled at the keeper of the stacks and turned away. Signs. Signs and portents. And all the way to the library on a Friday night with nothing to show for it. On the other hand, he realized, the periodicals department was still open. The 1973 L. A. Times was there on microfilm. Three hundred and sixty-five days worth of obituaries, though he figured he'd only have to find the Paris Peace Accords, and work his way back from there.

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But that was a strike-out. After nearly an hour's searching, he leaned back in frowning puzzlement as he rewound the last spool and lifted it from the spindle. True, he'd been skimming, but surely a judge's son—and a war hero to boot—would have rated more than a few lines of small print. He slipped the reel into the box and set it down next to the others. He blinked, and rubbed his temples. Part of him believed this was a sign, too, _leave it alone; it's none of your business._ Another annoyingly persistent part, somehow still wanted to take the measurements of that empty space, to at least know the general outline of things.

There were two other possible sources of information. Tapping either of them might be dangerous, but he thought Frank Harper was the safer choice. He had no idea what Frank would say—he'd never raised the issue of Hardcastle's personal life with the man who seemed to know him pretty well.

"The worst he can do is say 'no'," Mark muttered to himself, as he gathered up the rest of the reels and returned them to the shelving cart. Then, feeling edgily guilty about the whole thing, he departed.

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It was after ten-thirty by the time he arrived back at Gulls Way. He went to the main house first, letting himself in, putting the day's mail on Hardcastle's desk, and giving the place the once over. There was no blinking light on the answering machine and therefore the judge hadn't tried to reach him.

He was oddly relieved. The idea of talking to him right now was disturbing. He'd never been very good at concealing things, at least not from the judge.

He wondered why Hardcastle hadn't seen fit to mention the place before—a sort of preemptive strike—'There's a room over at the library dedicated to Tom. I don't want to talk about it'—something subtly Hardcastilian like that. Mark shook his head and smiled sadly. He turned off the light in the den and let himself out through the front door.

He wandered across the driveway, hands in pockets, occasionally looking up at the sky. He had a notion he was avoiding more than a call from the judge. He was trying to remember the chronology of it all and recapture his motivations at the time. He thought most of it must have been native caution.

He arrived at the gatehouse door. Home. Most definitely home, and he'd known it to be so from a point in time that really made no sense—a month, at the most, from the night he'd first set foot on the estate. Not even really a month—more like a week or two.

He let himself into the gatehouse and stood in the dimly-lit main room. He tried to picture it as it had been, all the furniture draped in sheets and Sarah stiff and prickly, reciting the list of former tenants.

He'd been bemused, overwhelmed, exhausted. The trial by fire that had followed had given him no chance to sort any of it out. Before he'd even had a chance to think things through, he'd had his socks in a drawer in the loft bedroom and he and Hardcastle were careening off on another adventure—this time in pursuit of an old mob adversary of the judge's.

Then the mobster, Joe Cadillac, had turned everything on its head, asking Hardcastle for a favor—begging him really—using the unlikely lever of Hardcastle's loss to enlist his help in saving Cadillac's kidnapped son.

Mark leaned against the wall and frowned in concentration, trying to remember exactly what the man had said that afternoon in the judge's study. "You lost a son, too, in 'Nam." It must have been that, or something very nearly like it. Mark remembered sitting there, in silent surprise. Part of his shock had been the judge's response—harsh, preemptory, no explanation and no room for discussion.

But Cadillac had obviously struck a nerve. It hadn't taken much insight to realize the judge wouldn't stand by, doing nothing to save the other man's son, even if there was no alternative except breaking and entering and Grand Theft Evidence.

That was it; that was when it had happened, Mark realized. He could remember it clearly—how he'd felt then. He'd gone back to the gatehouse, shagged out of the den by an obviously impatient Hardcastle. He'd stood there, almost exactly where he was standing now, and realized, in an almost blinding flash of insight, that he knew how the judge thought because Hardcastle thought like _him_.

He might've sat down on the sofa for a moment then, in fact, he was sure he had. After that, though, he'd gone upstairs to the loft and gathered up what he would need: basic black clothing, shoes with a good grip to the soles, thin leather gloves, equally suitable for driving and for even finer motor skills.

There'd been one last item. It was something more personal—his own set of picks. He'd hesitated before opening the desk drawer where he'd stowed them. It wasn't as if Hardcastle didn't suspect he owned them, but it seemed unwise to wave the evidence right in front of him like that. Still, Mark had figured they needed every edge they could get if they were to pull this one off. He'd sat down at the desk chair and begun digging for the well-worn brown leather case.

And it hadn't been there. The first, cursory search had given way to a more detailed examination of the drawer's contents, and from there to a careful item by item removal and inventory. By the time he'd reached the bottom he was verging on panic, uncertain what it all meant—or what it _would_ mean, if Sarah had stumbled across his stash of tools and taken the matter up with the judge.

Then he'd taken a deep breath and had managed to get a grip. It made no sense that she would have been up here, poking around. She'd already made it clear that he was responsible for his own rooms. And if she _had_ come upon the case—and had recognized it for contraband—she was hardly the sort who would have studied the matter before reporting to the judge. Hardcastle hadn't seemed like a guy who would vacillate either.

But nothing had happened.

That had been the moment when logic had finally overcome blind panic. He'd taken another, closer look at the drawer, finally pulling it off its runners, removing it from the desk completely. He'd leaned forward and felt around in the now empty slot where the drawer had been. He'd almost immediately felt something thin—smooth like leather but not quite the dimensions of his case. He'd pulled it out and glanced at it cursorily—a book, small and unlabeled. A journal, he'd realized, when he'd opened it.

What would have been meaningless to him only an hour earlier, now made eerie sense. Thomas C. Hardcastle, USMC, the man whose name was inscribed inside the front cover, was _Milton_ C.'s lost son. How the journal had wound up in the gatehouse was a mystery, but since it wouldn't help him open any locks, it was quickly set aside. Another scrounge in the back of the slot yielded up the missing case, and Mark had sighed with relief over more than one issue.

But the journal hadn't been forgotten, nor had Hardcastle's obviously bristly attitude toward anything abutting on his late son. It was well along the next day—after a burglary, a ransom, a careening high-speed chase, an exploding car, and an aborted confession that might have landed him and Hardcase in adjoining cells—that Mark had finally returned to the gatehouse.

He thought he could hardly blame himself for having had serious doubts about his mercurial employer. Anyway, it hadn't seemed like an appropriate moment to trot over to the main house and announce, "Here, I found something of your son's." He'd figured that moment might never arrive—and he thought he'd never be able to convince the old donkey that he hadn't somehow been prying into his family secrets.

But he hadn't. God knows he hadn't. He'd put the damn book, unexamined, up on a shelf among some others. There it had sat, unremarkable and unnoticed, for nearly four years. It was still there now. He could see it, leaning slightly against a copy of Winston Churchill's War Memoirs. Hidden in plain sight, which was very often the best place to hide.

He considered it again. He decided, for the umpteenth time, that between it and Harper as a source of information, Frank was the safer option. Still, he wondered how he'd managed to ignore it all this time—to have put it almost entirely out of his mind.

Native caution again, he decided. Self-preservation.

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He'd finally fallen asleep, not all that many hours before dawn, and awoke at an hour his internal alarm clock associated with basketball. There was no one out under the hoop this morning and the silence was almost more noticeable than the customary racket.

Saturday morning, and he'd been looking forward all week to sleeping in, but now he was awake, pondering how early could still be considered a civilized hour to roust Frank out with a phone call. Nine seemed reasonable. Anything before that would smack of worry. He wanted this to be a mere point of information, though he wasn't sure how he could bring up the topic of Tom Hardcastle and have it sound routine.

He got up, killed some time making breakfast, found he wasn't hungry, stared at the bookshelf for a while, caught himself doing that, and very suddenly decided he'd go out and sink a few baskets. He had turned, and was halfway to the door, when the phone rang. There was only one person it could be at eight-thirty—some people had a different notion of what was civilized on a Saturday. Mark sighed and for once worried that he might sound too awake.

He picked it up on the third ring and tried to mumble his hello.

_"Hey, kiddo, Haven't burned the place down?"_

"Not yet, but it's early. You having a good time?"

"_It's Fresno, whaddaya think?"_

"Well," Mark sighed, and this time there was nothing feigned, "don't rush home on my account. I've got a bunch more stuff to do at the library." He winced. He wondered if it would be ever thus from now on when he mentioned the place. He figured he'd have to practice that one a bit, smooth it out some before he could refer to it without any noticeable discomfort,

His delivery had apparently been unremarkable. Hardcastle didn't sound very concerned when he said, "_Library, huh? Just make sure there's no beer cans lying around the pool and don't let anyone leave their wet swimsuits on the furniture_."

"Finish the beer, no swimsuits. Gotcha." There, easy. Just a matter of staying in character.

"_You're okay, aren'tcha?"_

Mark winced again and shot back, "'Course I am."

A moment of hesitation from the other end and then, "_Good. You had me worried there for a minute, all this talk about libraries. Sounded like you were coming down with something."_

"Yeah, huh, a bad case of research," Mark said grimly.

The judge got a quiet chuckle over that one—as though he still found the transformation entertaining. From there it was a brief and easy slide to a few necessary exchanges of information and then good-byes.

Mark hung up, sighed in relief, and checked his watch again—only a few minutes to nine. He sat back, tapped his foot impatiently for what might have been thirty seconds, and then leaned forward and punched the office number in. He thought the odds were slim that Frank was there on a Saturday—but not all _that_ slim.

He was rewarded on the second ring with the sound of Harper's laconically impatient greeting.

"Hey, Frank, it's me," he replied.

He'd thought about this next bit, off and on through the parts of the night when he'd been staring at the ceiling. He'd decided there was no possibility for subterfuge here, at least nothing that would pass muster with Harper, who knew him pretty well and Hardcastle even better.

"Listen," he hurried on, "I know this isn't any of my business, really, but something came up yesterday," he hesitated. Okay, maybe a little subterfuge wouldn't hurt. It'd sound less goofy that way—or less _calculated._ "It was a question. I thought you might know"

Now he came to a full pause. Frank didn't help him out any. Mark thought he could hear him opening a file drawer, probably pulling out the latest project Hardcastle had consulted him on.

Mark sighed and then plunged ahead. "It's about Tom Hardcastle."

Dead silence from the other end of the line. It was the kind of silence that needed to be filled in with some sort of explanation.

"I was at the library," Mark added hastily. "There's this room there with his name on it."

"_Oh, that_." There was an exhalation from the other end. "_Yeah, I think it was Nancy's idea. Her dad had a nice collection of old law books, stuff like that . . . he was the guy Tom was named after, see?"_

"Ah." It was already a freer offering of information than Mark had anticipated, but he recognized it as an attempt at controlling the direction of the conversation. "Well," he said, trying to sound merely casually interested, "I was looking something up, for Professor Sturgis—you remember him? He's a friend of Hardcastle's."

That was a clear-cut attempt of his own at redirection. He heard a grunt of cautious acknowledgment from Harper.

"And, anyway, I was up there, in that room, with the librarian, and saw the plaque and all that . . . It's real nice," he added. "You were there for the dedication?" he asked matter-of-factly.

Harper's 'yeah' had an edge of puzzlement to it.

"In '73, right?"

"_'Bout then_." Frank answered slowly. There was more obvious reluctance to it.

"I mean, '73 was when he died," Mark probed. "That's what the plaque said . . . but it didn't have the date."

Silence again from the other end. It seemed like a particularly significant silence, as though Frank was working on the next part.

"_Been fifteen years, Mark_," the lieutenant finally said, with audible reluctance and just a shade of obfuscation.

Mark supposed that was true, but he was also intimately familiar with the technique of stating an irrelevant truth to avoid an unnecessary lie. He didn't comment on this one. There wasn't much more he could say with out explaining his side trip through the back issues of the L.A. Times.

Frank seemed to realize something more was expected, too. There was an audible and unhappy sigh from the other end of the line. Then Harper fell back to a more defensible line.

"_Why don't you ask Milt?_"

It might have been a suggestion, but it had come out fully inflected as a question.

"He's up in Fresno," Mark said, knowing it sounded pretty weak as excuses went.

Frank said nothing and McCormick realized he wasn't getting anything further, at least not without turning this into more than a casual inquiry, and maybe not even then. He stepped back from it cautiously, finally admitting, still very casually, "He'll be back tomorrow." This time he was the one employing the irrelevant but true fact. He had no intention of asking Hardcastle anything about his son, then or any other day.

"_I dunno know, though, Mark, you might not want to—_" It had come out hurriedly, and then stopped just as abruptly, as if Frank thought any more warning would need some explanation.

"Not want to what?" McCormick asked quietly.

"_Ask him . . . about Tom, I mean_." Frank sounded increasingly reluctant. "_He doesn't like to talk about him. You knew about him, though, huh?_"

"Yeah." Mark tried to make it sound nonchalant.

"_Well, then, you can understand, it's not something he wants to dwell on_."

Mark heard the words, but listened to the tone. And from them both an inkling of a suspicion arose. It was still nebulous, but already cast a deeper shadow across the conversation. He took a chance, like casting a line into dark water.

"It was investigated, wasn't it?"

"_Of course_," Frank said.

There'd been no pause. It was stated as though it was a given. For Mark, though, it was like having an answer without having any idea what the real question had been, and Harper wasn't handing out anymore clues.

"_Like I said_," the lieutenant went on, with a tone of taciturnity, "_you might not want to bring it up with him._"

"No, I guess not."

There was more truth to the guessing part that Mark was willing to admit. He felt as though talking to Frank had only deepened the mystery. It might have been his imagination, but it seemed as though Harper's good-bye was hasty, maybe even eager. McCormick barely had time to blurt out one last request.

"Maybe you shouldn't mention any of this to him, either."

Frank's quick, ''Course not,' was further grist for the mill of speculation. Mark let the wheels turn for a few minutes after he'd hung up the phone. Frank usually gave good advice, but he was hardly ever cryptic. And, really, all he'd advised him not to do was mention it to Hardcastle. That seemed reasonable enough.

Mark found his eyes drawn back to the slim volume on the shelf beside Churchill. Had it been put out here because the judge couldn't bear even that much reminder of his loss? Surely he couldn't have forgotten he'd left it here. Or maybe Hardcastle's wife had hidden it here, before her death. Maybe the judge didn't even know it existed. It might be after fifteen years he would welcome some contact, however remote, with the ghost of his son.

_Maybe you should forget you ever laid eyes on it._

Mark stood, frowning. He reached up for it, reasoning that he couldn't very well hand it over to the man without making sure that whoever put it here hadn't had a very good reason for not wanting the judge to see it. He found himself sitting down, abruptly, and then, after a moment of hesitation, fanning the pages. He'd temporarily mislaid his motivations. Was he trying to determine if there was something in there that the judge shouldn't be forced to confront, or still trying to solve the mystery of the missing obituary?

He opened it at random, looking down at a handwriting that had elements of familiarity, a family likeness. It was nearly as unreadable as the judge's. September, 16th 1972. It might take some deciphering. He thumbed forward a few pages; there were place names at the beginning of each entry, alongside the date. He didn't recognize the names, but they were clearly places in Vietnam. October, and the entries were more widely spaced, and shorter—the handwriting, if anything, more hurried and less readable.

And a short ways into November the entries stopped. Mark flipped through the rest of the pages quickly. Nothing else there, not a single entry that carried it any further forward. He rubbed his temple and then paged back to the last entry. He put more effort into reading it and was rewarded with no particular insight as to why Tom Hardcastle had suddenly given up his notations.

He went back to the beginning, June of '72, and looked at the first few lines. It was a slightly self-conscious commentary from a very young man on his decision to write some things down. Mark eased back on the sofa and smiled to himself. He'd tried keeping a journal once, at the instigation of a prison shrink. He'd felt self-conscious as hell doing it. He sympathized with Tom completely.

The handwriting was becoming more readable with exposure, even as it gradually lost its stiff formality and evolved into more relaxed notes. There were some humorous asides. It was the rough humor of war, but on the whole Tom Hardcastle seemed likeable, _affable_, once he had shed his earlier air of dutiful authorship.

Mark settled back, slipping into the flow of it. He listened to Tom gradually gain self-confidence. The members of his platoon had become individuals, rather than names—just as they must've for the man himself—with foibles and strengths.

He almost flipped past it, skimming quickly, trying to figure out why the entries stopped only six months after they started—a much shorter entry than the ones that had preceded it, more _pensive_.

_11-3-72 _

_ Never thought I'd wish for a chance to talk something through_

_ with dad. Thought I'd had plenty of that before I left home. Thought_

_ I'd have a lifetime's worth of him telling me what was the right thing _

_ to do. _

There it ended, and by the next entry whatever the moral dilemma had been, Tom didn't see fit to elaborate. The only clue was a cryptic comment, two days later.

_11-5-72_

_ He won't be able to say I didn't try. Lot of good it'll do; I could see _

_that even while I was telling the Captain. Now I'm in for it. Bad enough _

_that you can't tell who the enemy is half the time. Now to have to_

_watch my own back, too. _

There were only a handful of further entries. They looked more hastily written, and lacked the sparks of humor that had found their way even into the grimmer of the earlier anecdotes.

The last notation was dated 11-11, and consisted of little more than Tom commenting, ruefully, that he had made it to the half-way mark of his year in-country, and wondering how much longer his luck would hold.

November eleventh, but 1972. There were nearly seven weeks missing. He supposed Tom might have been wounded, or even gone missing in action and the fact of his death not determined until the following year. That news might have come quietly to the family, maybe even as a consequence of the peace—a determination of death by stages, with no clear date to attach to it and only the year having to suffice.

Mark riffled through the rest of the pages, left blank through necessity or choice—it wasn't clear. There was no telltale smear of blood, no final coda written in another hand to explain how or when the end had come.

There was only logic—the book had come back to Gulls Way, so someone here must have known of it's existence, and chosen to put it in that desk drawer. The drawer must have been filled then, too, in order for the book to have migrated over the top, and fallen into space behind. That drawer, and all the others in that desk, had been entirely empty when he'd first moved into the gate house.

None of it made very much sense, but nothing really had, since the moment he'd laid eyes on that plaque in the library. He didn't feel as if he could hand over the diary to its author's father without at least some notion of how it had come to be where it was. He put it back where he'd gotten it from, almost wishing he could wipe his prints from the pages.

He contemplated having a whack at the hedges. He wondered what sort of excuse he could make for that kind of ambition when Hardcastle came home. 'I needed to think.' That would get him one of those penetrating looks from the judge, which would probably be followed by him stammering out a confession. Better to go about his business as usual—any excuse to avoid the yard work.

November the eleventh—another perimeter. Veteran's Day. Mark dwelled on the irony for a moment, and then realized he'd made up his mind. It was almost a reflex movement. He was reaching for his jacket and it wasn't with the hedges in mind. He was going back to the library.

00000

This time his pile of microfilm reels was smaller. He had a clear starting point but, just to be certain, he took all of November, and December as well.

He needn't have bothered. He'd been right about a jurist's son meriting a few column inches, but he would have missed it anyway, if he'd still been limiting himself to the obituaries. It made page three of the local news section on the fourteenth of November: Marine Sgt. Thomas C. Hardcastle wounded in fighting. Extent of injuries not known but his condition was said to be serious. There was a mention of his prominent jurist father, and his mother—long-term community resident and active in civic affairs.

Mark leaned back from the view screen, stunned. He edged forward in his seat again, reeling through the rest of that week—no further mention, and no obituary, of course. The rest of the spool passed between the glass patens and offered up no further clues.

It wasn't a thunderbolt of revelation—more like a slow dawning of light as he sat back again. Serious, but not dead. And not missing in action. He momentarily reconsidered the words he'd heard in Hardcastle's den, ten years after the fact and from someone who wasn't a close personal friend of the judge's—more like a distant enemy. Who knew where Joe Cadillac had gotten his information? And if he'd gotten the facts a little skewed, Hardcastle would hardly have been in the mood to correct them.

One fact seemed more than likely—Tom Hardcastle had survived his injuries for at least seven weeks, if raised letters on bronze were to be believed. More than that—since his obituary hadn't appeared in the first three months of the 1973—he'd survived the war, if only briefly.

And there'd been a drawer full of stuff in the gate house at Gulls Way.

00000

He'd started back in on the 1973 reels with a sense of foreboding. It was as if there were a sign in the path—_Turn Back Now_—and he had stepped around it. Of course being on this road was the direct consequence of having ignored at least three previous signs, including the one illuminated with high-beam headlights on reflective tape that he'd encountered back in the LA County lock-up in '83 when Hardcastle had first offered him the position of Tonto.

That was really the problem, Mark decided. Since saying yes against his own better judgment in _that_ instance had turned out pretty well, maybe he hadn't completely trusted himself ever since. This was different, though, and he knew it deep in his soul. This was stepping off into a void with no idea how far down the bottom would be, or even whether there was a way back up again.

He ignored all those concerns and began to feed the next spool through the machine, scanning page after page of April 1973. Trepidation gave way gradually to eyestrain and blinking fatigue. His mind wandered off briefly to where he'd been in the spring of that year. Daytona—breathing the heady fumes of stock racing. He'd been with Flip Johnson's crew—the first real family he'd had since his mother's death eight years earlier.

And the judge had been here, working. There was a mention of him presiding over a trial in early May. Nothing else. By the time he'd gotten to the end of that month, Mark had been lulled into a false sense of security, and so the article took him entirely by surprise. It wasn't in the obituaries, though the brief piece was near at hand to them: _Malibu_ _Shooting Death Ruled Accidental._

He suddenly understood that the bottom was much further down than he'd imagined.

00000

He supposed it was on account of his expression. When he showed up in Frank's office an hour later the man ushered him in, frowning, but not saying anything else until the door was closed and he was seated.

Even then Harper said nothing right off. He went back around to his own chair and sat down. There he sat, looking grim. Mark found his own mouth had gone dry and the dozen questions had all boiled down to one.

"What the hell happened, Frank? Tom was shot _here_?"

Harper's expression went flatter, with just an edge of the judgmental to it. "I thought you said he'd told you."

Mark frowned, trying to remember the exact words he'd spoken. "I said I knew about Tom. I didn't say I knew he'd died _there_, at the estate. And how does a guy get accidentally shot in the head?"

Frank looked away for a moment, as though he was considering that, then he glanced back, his face just as set as before.

"It happens when maybe a guy's already not real good in the head. The hit he took over in 'Nam had done a lot of damage. Nobody even thought he'd survive that one. He wasn't the same when he got back. Hell, he was four months in the hospital. They said he'd never talk again."

"But he came home," Mark said insistently. "He must've been doing better."

"Yeah," Harper admitted, "some. But he wasn't Tom. Not the Tom he'd been before. There was still a helluva lot of damage. That's what the docs said, later on," he added bitterly, "_after _it happened. That guys get to a point where they know how much they're damaged, and they can do something about it."

"Then they thought it wasn't an accident."

"'Death by misadventure', that's what the M.E. said. Might've been that he was going through his stuff—it had finally gotten shipped back. He found the gun; he was handling it. He had spasms, you know. He didn't have real good motor control." Frank's sentences had gone short and a little choppy.

"He was staying out in the gatehouse?" Mark saw Frank nod, looking relieved at the slight directional change of the conversation. "Why?"

"I dunno," Harper said evasively. "What difference does it make?"

"Had he just moved out there?"

"Not exactly." Frank hesitated. Then he shook his head emphatically. "It was nothing like that. I think he just wanted to be out on his own. Maybe prove that he could take care of himself. He was glad to be home. Might've been a little short tempered. Frustrated sometimes. It was tough. He'd gone through a lot."

Mark was sitting forward slightly. "What happened the first time?"

Another shrug. "On patrol. A grenade. Pretty bad. Some fragments to the head."

McCormick frowned. "That's it? No more details?"

Frank shook his head. "It was a _war_. Tom didn't even remember it. Like I said, he was missing a lot of pieces."

Mark thought he might get more, if he kept at it, but Frank's cautious shading would make it all of questionable value.

"There was no question, though," he finally muttered in frustration, "about his death—_Tom_ was holding the gun when it went off?"

As soon as he'd said it he realized how it'd sounded. After a moment of stunned surprise, Frank's face flushed with anger.

"Nitrate residue test, right hand positive. Close-range injury to the right temple. There was an investigation. The M.E. ruled on it. You wanna see the reports?"

McCormick knew it was too late to undo the unintentional implication, at least he couldn't without revealing the root of his own suspicions—the damn journal. But none of that really mattered right now, not if Frank was willing to hand over the file.

Feeling his own rising flush—with false pretenses rather than anger as the source—he answered, "Yeah, I would."

Frank was on his feet. Mark thought for a moment that he was going to be summarily thrown out of the office, but anger had apparently given way to cold disgust.

Mark watched him turn to a file cabinet over on his left, reaching down to the bottom drawer and yanking it open. He supposed it made sense that Frank, in some ways also a protégée of Hardcastle's, would have files of his own. That this was one of them belied the rigid certainty he'd presented a few moments ago.

It wasn't all that thick. Frank tossed it onto the desk. Mark stared at it for a moment then realized Harper wasn't sitting back down again. The lieutenant said nothing more as he turned, reaching for the door. A moment later he was gone, the door closed with some emphasis—though not enough to draw any attention from the few people who were staffing the outer office.

Mark looked over his shoulder guiltily then hunched forward, leaning over the desk, pulling the file towards him and opening it. It made no sense not to look now—Harper had left him to it, and would never believe he hadn't.

The file was thin, but appeared almost obsessively complete, everything from the responding officer's report to Frank's own interviews. There hadn't been any witnesses, of course. Hardcastle had been alone in the main house. He said he'd just gotten home. He'd stopped at the hospital to see his wife.

He'd heard shots—two of them—from the direction of the gatehouse. The door was locked when he'd gotten there—the security latch thrown from the inside. He'd had to force it. All that had been confirmed by forensic reports.

Tom had been already dead when the police and paramedics had arrived. The medical examiner's report confirmed Frank's description. The weapon had been Tom's own. His personal effects had just arrived back a few days earlier.

There were more interviews, comments, asides, more speculation than anything else—that Tom had perhaps been depressed. That made sense, of course. He was disabled; his mother was in the hospital. His rest of his unit had just returned from overseas.

It was there, in photocopies all neatly organized. Mark wondered if the judge had his own set—somehow he doubted it. He riffled through the rest of the sheets. There were photos. He turned them over in one group after catching a first glimpse of taped outline in an all too familiar setting. It had been a thorough investigation.

He set the file back down on the desk. Mark heard the door open behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and this time considered his words carefully before he spoke.

"There was a guy coming to visit him—an officer he'd known over there. _That's_ what they think made him do it?"

Frank looked as though all his anger had burnt away, leaving only the ashes. He managed a slow shrug.

"Yeah, they sent a military shrink around to talk to Milt and Nancy. That's what he said. It's hard for someone—especially a young guy—to see everybody else getting on with their lives."

"But he _didn't_ see the guy; it happened before he got there." Mark looked down at the papers briefly; flipping to the one he wanted. "Here, Lieutenant John Chassell, he showed up right after, with this other guy—a Sergeant Tanckowski." There were barely two pages covering the interview with the lieutenant and an even briefer set of notes from the non-com.

"Like the shrink said, I guess maybe Tom thought he couldn't handle it."

"Yeah." Mark frowned. "And what about the second shot Hardcastle heard?"

"Found that in the wall. Not surprising—he had lousy muscle control, lots of spasms." Now Frank was frowning, too. "What are you getting at? You weren't actually thinking Milt had anything to do with it?"

Mark didn't even favor that with a reply. He just shook his head. Frank stepped forward, leaned past him and gathered up the file, neatening it up in a way that appeared almost subconscious. He opened the drawer and had it tucked in, way in the back, a moment later.

Drawer closed, case closed, and Frank looking thin lipped, as if he were still waiting for an answer.

Mark finally sighed. "Looks like he shot himself. That's what all those pieces of paper say, right?"

Harper nodded once.

"What does Hardcastle think?"

Frank looked momentarily startled. There was a pause before he finally said, "I never asked him . . . and I don't think I ever will, either."

"But you kept a copy of the file?"

Frank cast one slightly guilty look down toward the cabinet drawer. "Yeah," he said, "in case he ever wanted to see it."

Mark ran his fingers through his hair wearily, then shook his head once and got to his feet. "He won't, though, not ever."

"No," Harper agreed reluctantly. "Probably not."

00000

There'd been nothing left to say after that except good-bye. Mark hadn't even bothered to ask if Harper would be informing the judge of this meeting. He knew Frank would be as reluctant as he was to bring the subject up with Hardcastle.

He stood on the sidewalk in front of the station pondering all the facts for a moment, weighing them. It wasn't as though the people involved with the investigation hadn't been thorough. It wasn't even as though he couldn't believe things had happened just as they were said to have. Lord knows he's been close to that point himself, with far less provocation than Thomas Hardcastle. Mark shuddered; the pathologist's report had described the previous damage as well. It seemed close to a miracle that Tom hadn't died from his earlier injuries.

There was nothing in the file to dispel the possibility that the man's death had been self-inflicted. Hardcastle, even in a state that must have been close to shock, had been a competent witness and the forensic reports independently confirmed what he'd said—the door had been bolted from the inside, and he had forced it from the outside. All the windows had been intact and latched as well.

Self inflicted, perhaps, but the immediate provocation—the impending visit from his platoon leader—stuck out as the one awkward fact. And John Chassell's arrival on the scene a few moments later, not even a minute after Hardcastle placed the call to the police—

Mark stiffened. He squinted down at the pavement before him trying to remember exactly how that part had read. He finally gave up on his memory and turned sharply, heading back into the station.

Frank looked like he hadn't moved at all since he'd departed. He looked up, surprise written in his expression, at Mark's swift return.

"Where did Hardcastle call the police from?" At Harper's somewhat blank look Mark forged ahead. "'The house' he said; he met Chassell as he was coming out of the house, after he'd called the police. He doesn't call the gatehouse that—that's what he calls the main house. Why'd he go back up to the main house to call?"

Frank frowned and started reaching for the drawer.

"There wasn't any phone hooked up in the gatehouse," Mark said, half to himself. "Tom must've just moved out there, right?"

Frank looked over his shoulder at him, still frowning. He finally nodded.

"Same as when I moved in there. Took me a couple of weeks to get a phone hooked up. Chassell musta called the main house, too, when he got back from 'Nam, to find out how Tom was doing."

"Yeah," Frank looked perplexed, "I suppose. What are you getting at, Mark?"

McCormick reached up, rubbed his temple and then shook his head after a moment of thought. "I dunno. _Something_."

Frank leaned back from the open drawer, still looking up at him. "There's nothing there that I haven't already looked at a hundred times. Tom was a good kid. He worked hard at recovering from what happened—lots of people would have given up even sooner than he did—but it was pretty obvious that he wasn't ever going to be able to be what he'd been before." He leaned forward and shut the drawer.

Mark started to say it. He got as far as "What if . . .?" but then words failed him. The truth was, those entries in the journal might be just as much evidence in support of Tom's reported depression.

Frank let him stand there, silent for a moment.

"Just leave it alone," he finally said. "It took him a long time to put it behind him. I don't want you raking it all up again."

Harper's expression was set, grim and stern. It was obvious to Mark that he was being dismissed. He went peaceably, his chin down and his hands in his jacket pockets. Frank, as usual, was giving good advice.

00000

It was a good afternoon for driving, so he drove. He hadn't gotten all that far north on the PCH before he realized it wasn't going to work. Frank might be absolutely right about the trouble he'd be dredging up, but it didn't matter. Something was sticking out awkwardly from the puzzle. A piece didn't fit. He pulled over at the next wide, straight spot, and executed a 180 degree turn. What difference did it make? He'd already looked at the journal; he might as well look again, try to get this out of his system.

That impulse got him back to the estate and into the gatehouse. He tried to decide if the place seemed different to him, _haunted_ somehow, now that he knew what had happened there. He could picture the placement of the body—where Tom had been sitting and where he had ended up in grim repose—and Hardcastle battering down the door, desperate to get to him, not realizing it was already too late.

But, no, those were the shades of fifteen years past. The carpet had most likely been changed, the door repaired, and life—for everyone but Tom—had gone on. One could reasonably argue that he was better off, that a life limited by his previous injuries would not have been worth living.

Mark shook his head once in a disbelief he would have been hard pressed to explain and which he realized was not quite rational in its foundation. He didn't know exactly where his faith in Tom Hardcastle had come from, or even where it left off from his reliance on the man's father. And, rational or not, he reached up for the journal again, and then sat down on the sofa.

This time his reading was slower, and less furtive. He'd already recollected encountering John Chassell in the entries—an officer on his second tour.

Now that he was looking for them, the mentions of the man were thick in the early part of the volume, and it was evident that Tom admired his daring. There was a devil-may-care attitude to some of the lieutenant's exploits along with the feeling that the guy was a tenacious survivor. There were occasional comments, though, reflective hesitancies. It was not that Tom seemed the cautious type himself, but there might have been more than daring involved in Chassell's behavior.

Mark slowed as he reached the last month's entries. He only gleaned one new thing from them. On November 2nd Tom mentioned a patrol to reconnoiter a village. And from that date on, to the end of the entries, there was no mention of Chassell.

One might almost think that the man had died but, no, he'd been here, at the estate, on the fateful day a few months later. Small world, and way too full of coincidence for Mark's liking. Could there have been something other than the shame of being seen disabled by his former commanding officer that drove Tom to destroy himself?

He shut the book again but didn't put it back on the shelf. Instead, he placed it on the coffee table in front of him and contemplated its closed and anonymous cover for a few full minutes. Then he was on his feet again, heading up the steps to the desk and opening the lower drawer, the one behind which the diary had once rested. Now it held the phone directory. It was with no particular confidence that he pulled out the volume and thumbed through to the 'c' listings. The Chassells occupied a scant few entries, with only one John. His address was not all that far away in Beverly Hills. But even more interesting, directly below it in the bolder print of a business listing, was 'Chassell Security Services' with a L.A. address and number.

He thumbed forward to the yellow pages and found the ad quickly, a nice quarter-page under 'security systems consultants'. It was obviously a prosperous endeavor. There was a John Chassell in charge and he promised fifteen years of experience. The first name and timeframe were right, and the line of work seemed appropriate for an ex-military officer. Mark jotted down both numbers and addresses.

He sat back and thought it through, weighing the value of a quiet reconnoiter against a direct frontal approach. In the end, the decision was made with a quick check of his watch. It was already going on two in the afternoon. Tomorrow would be Sunday; the business would be closed and Hardcastle would be back the evening. Direct approach it would have to be. He didn't even have time to get more background information from Frank—not that he thought Harper would be much in the mood to offer any.

00000

He'd taken the Coyote and used his own name at the receptionist's desk. This was no storefront, prefab, home-security outlet. The glossy brochure on the receptionist's desk offered a wide range of 'security solutions', up to and including nattily-dressed bodyguards.

"Do you have an appointment?" the receptionist purred politely.

"No, it's something that came up suddenly."

She must have been used to hearing that, in this line of work. She glanced down at her appointment book and then up at him almost immediately. "Mr. Tanckowski is available—he's one of our managers."

Mark gave this what might have appeared to be a long moment's thought. The world was getting smaller by the minute. Though he supposed an ex-officer hiring his ex-sergeant wasn't all that unexpected.

"I suppose that'll do for now," he said with a thin smile.

The receptionist jotted his name down, used the phone to discreetly announce him, and directed him back to the office. He gave a quick glance to the title on the door, which was already opening to him. The man greeting him was an inch or two under six feet, and probably muscular under his well-fitted suit. His hair was a shade past military length and his smile was business-like.

Mark was welcomed in and ushered to a chair with an air of professional solicitude. He glanced around as he sat. There was a photograph on the wall—a group shot, young men in combat fatigues. He turned back to the man taking a seat behind his neatly organized desk.

"You were in 'Nam?" he said casually.

The man nodded with a quick acknowledging glance to the photo. "Marines," he said. "Two tours. You?" he asked politely.

"No." Mark shook his head. "Four F."

"Oh," Mr. Tanckowski kept his eyebrows firmly seated in acceptance, "medical."

"No, felony conviction. Juvenile."

One eyebrow snuck up, but was quickly recaptured and hauled back into line. This was followed by a very brief throat clearing and then, "And how can we help you today, Mr. ah—?"

"McCormick." Mark said. "I live over on an estate in Malibu. It's called Gulls Way."

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting to see, but it was obvious that the ex-sergeant, though battle hardened, hadn't been ready for _that_. His smile was gone. There was a little more throat clearing, this time more obviously nervous, and then he half-stammered as he started to speak again,

"A-and you're interested in some security analysis?"

"Not exactly," Mark said, keeping his voice low and not overtly threatening. "I don't own the place. It belongs to an ex-judge—Milton Hardcastle. You know him?"

"No," Tanckowski said abruptly. "Met him once."

"At his son's funeral?" Mark asked pointedly.

The nod was almost imperceptible. The man was getting his footing again. "You're a friend of Judge Hardcastle's?"

"I work for him. I live in the gatehouse."

This time the man's expression had gone grim and his eyes darted one more time to the photo on that wall. Mark still wasn't sure what to make of it all, but he was struck with a lancinating hunch.

He paused for a moment, to give what followed an unspoken significance, even though the words were measured out to be no more than the bare truth.

"I know what happened out there."

The persistent silence was answer enough. It was ill-defined but apparent guilt. Mark wished he could go further, but he was working with perilously thin information. One misstep and the whole thing would cave in.

Tanckowski offered no further clues and silence by itself wasn't useful except in raising Mark's suspicions. The man finally put both hands flat on his desktop, as if to push himself up from his seat. He muttered, "I think you ought to be talking to Mr. Chassell."

He lumbered to his feet, looking suddenly older and more weary, though Mark thought he couldn't have been much older than Tom himself would be now.

"All right, Chassell then," Mark said, wishing he could hold onto this guy for a few minutes more—he didn't want to loose the momentum, or the element of surprise.

But the ex-sergeant was already moving around the desk.

"He's not here today," Tanckowski said. He looked too eager to pass this off to someone else for that to have been a lie. "He's out of town this weekend. I can tell him you stopped by. Leave your number with the secretary." This was obviously an attempt at dismissal.

"Yeah you tell him," Mark paused, getting up slowly as though he were a man with no concerns, absolutely confident. "Tell him I have Tom's journal—the one he kept in 'Nam."

He didn't even look back over his shoulder to see what impact this had had on the other man. He simple strolled out of the office.

His air of casual disregard carried him all the way out to the parking lot, where it dissolved with a slump of his shoulders and a sense that he couldn't quite catch his breath. It was all wadded up with his increasing feeling that there was something deeply wrong about what had happened to Thomas Hardcastle, and that the man he'd just spoken knew something about that.

There was nothing more he could do about it now, though, and the one person whose judgment he was used to relying on was absolutely off limits for this matter. Mark slumped even further. He felt a sudden strange kinship with Hardcastle's son across fifteen years—scribbling his regrets in what was to be one of the last entries he wrote. He understood completely what it was like to have no one to confide in, and no one to watch your back.

00000

It might have been an act of contrition, or maybe a way of avoiding the telephone. He spent most of Sunday catching up on yard maintenance. It was nothing so dramatic that he thought it would excite comment—more the humdrum, tedious, low satisfaction chores that he usually loathed.

In the end, there were a few barely noticeable improvements to the grounds, but he'd killed the afternoon, and he heard the truck in the drive. He strolled round the side, wiping his hands off on his jeans as he went. Hardcastle was already out of the vehicle, and was giving a raised-brow look to Mark's work clothes.

"First the library, then the lawn?" the judge said with a grin that had a puzzled edge to it.

"Things needed doing," Mark muttered. "How was your trip?"

There was a casual shrug to that and then the judge reached back into the cab of the vehicle and pulled out a bag.

"Brought some burgers. You eaten yet?"

He was already turned away, heading back toward the patio with his offerings. Mark stood there for a moment, then trotted after him, catching up as he reached the table and began off-loading the food.

The judge glanced down into the now empty bag and frowned. "You got some napkins in there?" He gestured sharply with his chin toward the glass doors that led back into the gatehouse.

McCormick nodded, lifting his eyes and staring back in through the doors. There was the journal, still on the coffee table where he'd left it the day before. His head was buzzing fiercely. He thought he must be breathing too fast. He felt like one of those characters in an Edgar Allan Poe story. He half expected to see a slowly growing bloodstain inside on the floor--some manifestation of his unspoken guilt.

No stain appeared, and Hardcastle nattered on, something about the trip. Mark could hear him more clearly now as the buzzing diminished. He turned, reached for the door, slid it open, and stepped inside. He trod across the place where Tom's body had one laid and past the coffee-table, pointedly ignoring what was on it, all the time thinking only about it. Exactly why had he left it out there, in plain sight? By the time he'd returned from the kitchenette, napkins in hand, he thought he'd gotten a grip on himself and had mastered whatever internal conspiracy he'd set to trap himself.

Once he'd slipped past the doors again, back out to the patio, he thought he had it licked. He sat down, across from Hardcastle and started to unwrap what had been placed there. He concentrated on what he was doing, keeping his eyes steadily on it, not what was behind the judge, back there in the room. He even took a bite of the burger, though he might just as well have been chewing ash.

"Think maybe you got a couple beers to go with this?" Hardcastle interrupted Mark's determination with a casual frown, having unwrapped his own food. "I know there's some back in the house, but—"

McCormick felt something snap, almost like a bone, with a deep pain and a certain knowledge that he wasn't going to make it through this encounter untouched. At the same time his control was slipping, his eyes were drifting back to the room and what lay within.

"Beer," he said, and heard his voice flatten. He was back on his feet, almost mechanically.

He knew what was going to happen; it was a whiff of weird precognition that was verging on the supernatural. He stepped through the door again, hearing the judge say, 'What the heck's the matter with you?' and mumbling his own half-hearted 'Nothing, long weekend, that's all,' but the man was up and following him into the room. He heard the motion stop behind him, and pictured him standing there, arms crossed, looking mildly peeved, and the fraction of a second more as his gaze drifted down.

It took no imagination at all to know what he was referring to when the man finally said, "What's that?" and there was no answer that would serve except the truth. Any other excuse would cost him even more, though he expected the truth would be expensive enough.

"It's Tom's," he said without turning around. "I found it in a drawer."

He heard the silence and in it some subtle motion—Hardcastle reaching down after a moment's hesitation. "_When_?" There was an audible tremor to the judge's voice. Mark didn't want to turn around and face the expression that went with it, but that was the only way to deal with the rest of it—head on.

He pivoted slowly, leaning against the edge of the doorway for support. "It was a couple weeks after I came here," he said quietly. "It had fallen behind a drawer. I was . . . looking for something I'd misplaced."

"You—" The judge bit down on something else, whatever else he'd been about to say. It was obvious he'd already looked inside the cover. He was clutching the book with a white-knuckled grip in which anger was indistinguishable from fear. "Four _years_?" he finally stuttered.

Mark nodded once.

"You've looked at it? _Read_ it?"

"Not till this weekend," Mark said. "Except the first page. I knew it was Tom's. That's all I knew when I found it."

He thought he should explain, but realized the futility of it. Hardcastle was already turning away from him, still clutching the book. "_Why_?" the man asked, though it was obvious that there was no explanation that was going to satisfy him. He was already through the door, moving slowly but inexorably away.

McCormick wasn't sure if there was any relief in the vacuum of emotion that was left behind. He only knew that he'd never seen Hardcastle more angry, and less capable of giving vent to his wrath. That part would undoubtedly come later, when the judge interrogated Frank, and realized how much further Mark had intruded into his private grief.

He sat down on the sofa, elbows on his knees, hands hanging limply before him. And that's where he was only a moment later when the telephone rang. For one heart stopping second he thought it was Hardcastle, arrived back in the den and resolved to do the banishing from there. He reached for the phone anyway. The unfamiliar voice on the other end was only momentarily reassuring. That was the second it took him to realize that he had John Chassell on the line, and the man was exhibiting a thin layer of control over a deep anger.

"_Mr_. McCormick?" The title had been emphasized with a certain tone of dismissal. "My manager tells me you were in the office yesterday, behaving in a threatening manner."

Something flipped inside his head, like a switch, or maybe a circuit breaker. All other concerns, interconnected though they might be, were shunted to the side. His response assembled itself, as though it required no conscious act on his part.

"If he felt threatened, that's his problem," Mark replied smoothly.

There was a moment of puzzled-sounding silence from the other end of the line, then Chassell said warily, "You have something of Tom Hardcastle's?"

"His journal, from 'Nam."

"You've read it?"

"All of it," Mark snapped bitterly.

More silence. More wariness. Then, finally, "I might be interested in reading it, too."

"I'll bet."

"How much will it cost me?"

Mark stepped back from the edge of the deal, surveying the conversation thus far with a lawyerly amount of prudence.

"Dunno," he finally replied, "I think I might just hand it over to Hardcase. It'd be worth something to him."

"But he won't necessarily pay you what it's worth," Chassell said, caught up in his own forward momentum.

"And how much would you say that is?" Mark asked coolly.

"Twenty-five grand."

"That's chump change," he shot back.

"How do I know you don't have a copy?"

"A copy would be useless—no way to verify the date and authorship and why would I be able to produce a copy but not what it was copied _from_? You only need the original."

"All right," Chassell replied, after a moment's consideration, "fifty grand. No more."

Mark figured he'd haggled enough; it was time to nail the thing. "Okay, but it has to be tonight."

"It's Sunday, dammit."

"You have friends, connections, in your line of work. Guys who operate on a cash basis. Borrow it."

To his surprise, there was very little further resistance. Mark had a suspicion of what that meant, but for now he accepted it at face value.

"I'll need a few hours," Chassell said grudgingly.

"Two, that's all you're getting. Just north of the Ventura Freeway on Van Nuys—there's a gas station on the right, going north. There. Eight-thirty. And leave that ex-sergeant of yours at home. I see anyone but you there and I'm gone."

"How the hell will I recognize you?" Chassell snarled.

"A tall guy driving a GMC truck, silver and black. And I'll recognize you," he added dryly. "I know a _lot_ about you," he said, trying to keep it vaguely ominous.

"Eight-thirty."

Mark hung-up first, not waiting to see if there'd be any more objections. He already suspected the quick acquiescence was a signal that the man had no intention of going through with the deal as stated. He reviewed his side of the conversation one more time. He didn't think he'd been set up by an innocent victim of extortion and blackmail. He wished desperately that he knew exactly what Chassell thought he was being threatened with—but that didn't matter either.

What mattered was the man showing up, with money, or a weapon, little difference either way; it would still be the essential culpable act. And the critical thing was to give him as little time as possible to think about that. Two hours might be too long. He would have preferred only one, even if that increased the likelihood of Chassell resorting to a preemptive strike against the man he suddenly felt threatened by.

Mark took a deep breath and pushed himself up to his feet. Even that analysis had cost him five minutes—it had also given Hardcastle five more minutes to dwell on the breech of trust. Even now it might be too late.

He propelled himself through the half-open patio door, around the side of the gate house and across the drive. The light was still on in the den but the shutters were closed. There might have been the hunch of a shadow, the man sitting at his desk, brooding. It was impossible to tell.

Mark knocked and, hearing nothing, tried the knob. The door was locked. He knocked again harder. He needed the book, but more than that he needed Hardcastle.

Five long silent seconds and then the faint sound of someone moving on the other side. Mark held his breath until heard the latch give and the door open inward slowly. He didn't smile; he half-thought he might get slugged, no matter what expression he adopted. That didn't matter now, either, as long as he wasn't knocked unconscious for too long.

But the judge didn't swing on him. He simply stood there, looking old, and tired, and yet somehow still dignified, as though he was drawing on some long sequestered inner resources that had stood him through even worse times than these.

"I have an appointment with a guy named John Chassell. _Lieutenant_ Chassell. You remember him?"

To his credit, Hardcastle said nothing. He simply stared down for a moment, then raised his head and nodded once, still silent.

"I need that book. He wants it." Mark pointed to it, still clutched tightly shut in the judge's right hand. "He wants it bad enough to offer me fifty thousand dollars for it, and I want to know why."

Hardcastle wasn't moving. This was obviously too much to grasp all at one stroke and Mark had neither the time nor the patience to go back to the beginning and lay it all out.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, almost simultaneously wondering why the hell he had chosen that moment to bring it all down to a matter of trust. "Okay," he answered his own question, "probably not. I screwed up on this one but I only know one way I can maybe make it right and to do that I need the book, and you, and the truck."

"What the hell did you read in there?" Hardcastle said, with a sudden, low intensity, holding the book down tightly at his side.

Mark froze for a moment, then forced out a breath and let another one in. "Nothing," he said, "nothing at all except a kid trying to make sense out of a bunch of stuff that nobody should have to make sense out of—and he wished he had his dad around to help him out with that in the end. But nothing anybody should be willing to pay money to cover up." He shook his head sharply and then added, "If I don't get over to Van Nuys inside of an hour and a half, I may never figure that last part out, and all this," he gestured vaguely in the space between him and Hardcastle, "all this'll have been for nothing. I need to know _why_."

"_Why_?" Hardcastle echoed with bitter insistence. "The one thing I asked you to stay back from. It was no business of yours. None at all."

Mark stood there, not moving but still aware that he was losing ground. "Then I need to know why I threw this all away. If that's what the hell I've done." The last part had come out nearly as bitter as the judge's own words.

Hardcastle stood face to face with him, neither turning nor backing down. Their mutually belligerent stances held for what seemed an eternity to Mark, till he felt he'd be better off just turning and slinking off into the gatehouse to pack his bag.

But it was the judge who blinked. "This guy," he said gruffly, "Chassell, _he_ made the offer first?"

Mark nodded, not quite willing to hope. The air seemed to go out of the other man so suddenly that McCormick thought he might need to sit him down for a moment, but Hardcastle barely swayed before he pushed past him and toward the truck itself. The younger man turned and scrambled to catch up.

"You believe me?" he asked hopefully.

"You don't even know why he agreed to meet you," the judge huffed. "Maybe he's gonna show up with a bunch of cops and accuse you of blackmail."

It was a start, Mark decided. A shaky one, but a start. And they were talking again, at least as far as dire predictions and accusations went—also a start. That got them all the way to the truck and both into it, McCormick behind the wheel, the judge still holding the journal. This was easier, Mark thought, being able to look out the window, not having to make further eye contact with the man, to see the hate there.

"He runs a security business. I went there yesterday, to try and talk to him—"

"_Why_?"

They were back to that again. Mark winced. There was no direction to go with the story besides forwards. "Because," he said, briefly begging the question while he searched for an answer that would make some sense. He shook his head once without taking his eyes from the road. "Because the whole thing _didn't_ make any sense. Why they said he'd done it."

He heard a sharp intake of breath from the man alongside him. He knew he was standing on perilously thin ice, but just as suddenly he was tired of it, tired of the tiptoeing around and all the subterfuge, recent and past. There was a difference between not speaking ill of the dead, and not speaking of them at all.

"I was right," he said quietly. "The whole thing stinks to high heaven and Chassell is somehow right in the middle of it. Him and that ex-sergeant of his—Tank. He was there that day, too. Maybe you don't remember. He drove the car." Mark frowned. A stray thought had arced across his otherwise fully-occupied mind, like a shooting star just off his main field of vision, gone before he could direct his attention to it.

They were making steady progress, at least with regards to getting to the Ventura Freeway. Mark looked down at his watch and realized he'd lost another chunk of time. He had the impression of being propelled forward without having a chance to consider the alternatives. He hoped to God it was the same for Chassell, but from everything he'd read in Tom's journal, that was a man who acted on impulse, hazards be damned.

He settled into his driving, glad that for now the interrogation seemed to have stopped. When they were within a few miles of the exit ramp he said, soft but insistent, "I'll need the book. I won't actually give it to him, but I'll need it. He may know what it looks like." He thought he'd seen a small nod from Hardcastle, though the book wasn't being handed over yet. "And I'll need you to stay down, out of sight. I'll pull in pretty close, and you can leave the window down. I'll try and get in close enough so you can hear."

More hesitation, but finally, just as he approached the exit, he heard Hardcastle edging forward, to lower himself sideways below the level of the sill. It would be a tight fit, and therefore less expected. Something nudged his knee. It was the corner of the book, being offered up. He reached down and took it silently.

"He won't get to read it. I did but . . . I _had_ to."

Nothing but a soft grunt from the man now crouched awkwardly down. It might have been disbelief, or disgust, or simply resignation.

"Stay put." Mark pulled into the gas station, and around, toward the back where there were some trees and deeper shadows. "Nobody here yet but us," he said almost under his breath, not risking a look downward. "I'm gonna get out and look conspicuous."

He pulled up alongside some bushes and put the car in park, leaving the key in the ignition. He opened his door, making a pretense of checking front driver's side tire and then popping the hood. He'd already slipped the journal into his pocket.

He took out a pocket flashlight and used it to sweep the engine block with great attention to all the pro forma rites and rituals of a guy who thinks Something is Wrong under there. He jiggled bits in a tentative and experimental way, tugging gently on a wire now and then. He figured he could keep this up for fifteen minutes at least, and he had the patter to go with it, if someone from the station should show up trying to be helpful. It was the equivalent of 'just looking' when approached by a clerk in a retail store.

It didn't take even ten, and no one from within the service station came near him. Instead it was a van, pulling around from the opposite side that he come in from and cruising slowly as though the driver was checking things out. Mark had left no room for anyone to park or pull through on the passenger side, and made sure that the deepest shadows fell on that side of the vehicle, but he didn't want Chassell to approach too closely. He straightened up in order to be clearly seen. He heard some movement from within the truck and hissed a 'shhh' through clenched teeth.

One thing was immediately apparent, Chassell, if that's who it was emerging from the van, was not alone. Mark squinted into the confines and saw another man at the wheel—it was Tanckowski, not an undercover officer. McCormick felt his shoulders slump slightly in relief but was obligated to register a protest.

"I said—"

Chassell brushed the rest of it away with a quick, sharp gesture of his left hand. "He's involved in this, too. He has a right to be here."

Mark was left to ponder the meaning of that. The man behind the wheel looked by no means an eager volunteer.

McCormick dredged up a general purpose sneer. "You two don't trust each other, huh?" He was still pondering; he'd had another one of those brief, peripheral scintillations of thought.

"More than we trust you," Chassell sneered right back.

Mark forced his focus open, away from the man's face, and took in his right hand, plowed deep into a bulging jacket pocket. He supposed a stack of large bills equaling fifty thou would make a wad about that size, but so would a fist wrapped around a snubnosed gun and something about Chassell's demeanor leaned toward the latter option.

"Let's see it," the man said with impatience, and there it was, the slightest unconscious movement of the concealed hand, the gesture of a man who was already commanding obedience at the point of a weapon.

This would be a good time, Mark supposed, to clue Hardcastle in on the subtext but there was no way to do it, short of calling Chassell's attention to his faux pas.

"Let's see what you have in your pocket, first," McCormick said coolly.

Chassell smiled and pulled his hand out, keeping it tucked in tight and revealing a glimmer of blued steel by streetlight.

"That wasn't the deal," Mark said, with enough emphasis to convey to the judge just exactly what the new deal was.

"It's my version. You got it? Hand it over. Like you said, only the original's worth anything. Once I've got that, you can walk away from this."

"I doubt it."

Chassell shrugged. "It's lousy business practice to kill people. I only do it when I have to."

"What if I tell you I didn't bring it with me?"

"Then I _will_ kill you, just because I can't trust you. I'm willing to take my chances that you haven't told anyone else about it. Don't see who you could've gone to with it." The man was getting tense and McCormick felt as though he played it out for as much time as he could.

He reached into his jacket slowly, noticing the bead of Chassell's gun coming up as he did so. He pulled the journal out with two fingers. Tanckowski was already out of the van, coming around to the passenger's side and approaching him at an angle, staying out of Chassell's line of fire.

He must have seen something, some movement from within the truck. He froze momentarily and then his head turned toward Chassell.

"It's a trap," he blurted out, retreating a few steps. Mark heard Hardcastle in the vehicle behind him, obviously opening the door and the familiar voice cold and implacable.

"Hold it right there."

But Tanckowski, propelled by fear, was already back around the far side of the van, scuttling into position as the getaway driver. It became a matter of doubt whether Chassell would follow; he was still pointing his weapon as though he intended to use it.

_Impulsive, brash, devil-may-care_, McCormick thought. But with fifteen years of maturity must have come a small amount of prudence. Mark could see the shadow of Hardcastle's gun just over his own left shoulder, leveled right back at the man.

Chassell, who looked for a long moment as though he intended to pull the trigger, withdrew in good order. Two steps back to the already open door of the van, still holding them at bay with his weapon. Then Tanckowski floored it. The van shot off with a squeal of rubber against roadway, and metal against centrifugal force, as it took the sharp curve around the building and was gone.

Mark slumped back against the side of the truck and drew a long shuddering breath. It felt like the first one he'd gotten in a minute or so. He wasn't exactly sure what they'd just accomplished, but he'd had the clearest of visions as he'd been staring down the barrel of Chassell's gun. Adrenalin, maybe, or having his face forced down into the cold shock of the obvious. He thought he knew what had happened on that terrible day fifteen years earlier; he just didn't know if he could explain it to anyone else.

"The police?" he asked, realizing Hardcastle hadn't yet said anything.

The older man was still sitting, half-turned in the driver's seat, the barrel of his weapon now lying on the edge of the sill as if it had become too heavy to hold up.

"Why?" Hardcastle rasped. "What have we got 'em on? They pointed guns at us. We pointed guns at them. How we gonna prove they pointed theirs first when we don't even know why they were pointing 'em?"

"I know why," Mark said with quiet certainty.

"Something in the book?"

"No, not there, not exactly." Mark paused on the thought and held the book out.

Hardcastle hesitated for a moment, then put the gun down on the seat inside and reached for it.

"You want me to drive?" McCormick said after a moment more of silence.

The judge had been staring down at it, still closed. He startled slightly and then looked around at the darkened, deserted parking area. "Where we gonna go next?"

"Home?" Mark asked dully, with very little hope.

There was silence again, as if the judge had to think about that one for a bit, too, but finally he uttered a grunt and slid over across the seat, making room.

"Home," he muttered. "Yeah."

00000

Mark didn't test the silence that conducted them back to the estate. He drove diligently, once again keeping his eyes on the road. He thought through the sequence of events that had occurred to him as his life had hung in the balance a short while earlier.

He couldn't quite recapture the pure certainty he'd experienced in that moment, but now he attacked the reasoning that had overtaken him then, applying every hard won tool of logic he'd ever acquired, and found it tight.

He contemplated sharing it with the judge. He wondered if he would be given the chance. Just because the man had said 'home' didn't mean he was necessarily using the possessive plural pronoun. It would still be _his_ home, even after he banished McCormick summarily for an inexcusable breech of privacy and trust. And he supposed even the condemned had the right to pack up a toothbrush and some socks before being shown the door.

But the fact that he could now even think about it, suggested to McCormick that the peril was diminishing. Though that might only be on account of the current mystery—once that was solved to Hardcastle's satisfaction, the other issue might reacquire its thrust.

There was no more chance to think it through, the advantages and disadvantages of full disclosure. It was time. They were pulling into the drive, and if they parted ways as they got out of the truck, Mark thought he might never have the opportunity to set the record straight.

"I have to show you something," he said abruptly as the truck came to a stop. He felt almost as impulsive as the famed Chassell. He felt as if Tom himself was giving guidance from the wings, ready to whisper a prompt if his lines should fail him. "I need to show you something _now_," he added, countering Hardcastle's expression of gray fatigue. "It won't take long." Though he thought he might have the rest of his life to regret it, if he were wrong.

Hardcastle sighed as he climbed out of the truck. He was still holding the book tucked into his side, but he didn't turn and move away. Not yet. Mark took a deep breath and launched himself into it, knowing full well that the first part would be the hardest.

"You were in the den when you heard the first shot fired. And you said they weren't very far apart, but you made it all the way to the front door and had it open by the time you heard the second." He stood there, waiting for the backlash. He wasn't disappointed. The man's face went slowly from a shadowy gray to a flush of anger, visible even in the limited light from the front porch.

"Who? _Frank_." Betrayal on betrayal. His lips had gone tight; there was an equally tight shake of his head.

Mark couldn't help it. He couldn't give him time to regroup, time to stomp off and hunker down behind locked doors. He had to get it all out now. "That's what was in the official reports. The interview," he said.

It was now an almost calculated attempt at shocking the man into continued immobility, then plunging him so far into the darkness that he would have to walk toward whatever light there was.

"You came out and headed straight for the gatehouse," he said, a little more gently. "You didn't see anyone else around. No car here?" It was a perfunctory question. He thought he'd heard Hardcastle say it often enough: _Never ask a witness a question you don't already know the answer to._

"No," the judge muttered fiercely. "There was no one else here when I came out." He was getting himself back together. He was steeling for a fight, without even knowing anymore who to lash out at. Mark figured he would most likely do for a start.

But instead of swinging at him, Hardcastle said, still grudgingly, "I went to the gatehouse door."

"You went straight there and it was locked." Mark was walking in that direction now, fifteen years too late to do any good, but the same tension seemed to be upon the moment as must have been there that day. He let the momentum of it carry him forward. He didn't know if Hardcastle would follow and there was a sense of relief when he heard the other man's footsteps not far behind him. "It was locked—bolted from the inside." He spoke almost to himself. Hardcastle would have to come right up behind him to catch what he was saying.

"You had to force it." He reached out, realizing he hadn't locked up, in his haste earlier that evening. The knob turned and the door opened in undramatic counterpoint to what he was saying. He stepped inside. The lights were still on, and for a moment he thought their relative harshness would break the spell he'd managed to weave.

But, no, it had been broad daylight that first time. He paused on a thought. He asked a question he didn't know the answer to. "Were the lights on or off when you got in?"

"Off," Hardcastle said without hesitation, with the accuracy of memory seared permanently into the mind. He was looking down and a little to his left at what must have been the spot.

"That makes sense," Mark said cryptically. "Not dark though, but dim, after coming in from the full light. You saw him right away?" He realized he'd been wrong earlier—there was no hardest part; it would all be hard.

Hardcastle nodded. He said nothing but he didn't back off or try to retreat from it.

"And as soon as you saw him you went to him."

"Of course," the man rasped. "He was still breathing . . . but it was too late."

Mark didn't know if this was the time to say it, but he was almost certain it had already been too late the instant Hardcastle had heard the first shot, when he'd been back in the den. But for the moment he said nothing. He merely edged back a little, giving the judge his space and some time with his memories. He moved quietly around the perimeter of the room, toward the side away from the front door—the short hallway leading off to the kitchenette. He paused at that doorway, staring back at a window he'd looked at a thousand times without ever before really having considered it.

"Then you went back to the house," he said quietly, "to call for help."

"It was too late. I should have stayed with him."

Mark couldn't argue with that, though he knew it wouldn't have done Tom any good. He'd seen the pathologist's report. _But_ . . .

He stepped back into the hallway, only partway, confirming the sightlines for himself and then saying it out loud. "This is where he was, I'm pretty sure."

Hardcastle tore his gaze from the still-empty spot on the floor and looked over his shoulder. Mark stepped forward again, back into view.

"Who?" the judge said brusquely. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"John Chassell. He was in here, before you even arrived."

Hardcastle stared at him in confusion.

"It fits with the facts—all you have to do is get rid of the impressions. Why did he have Tanckowski drive him that day? Tank barely gets a mention in that journal. Tom hardly _knew_ him. Why did Chassell bring him along? Do Marine officers hang out with their noncoms that much?"

Mark waited in vain for any signal to continue. The judge was frowning now, but made no other acknowledgement. McCormick carried on anyway—too late to turn back.

"He's stayed with him for fifteen _years_. Tonight Chassell said he had to be there—he had a _right_ to be there. Tank had a stake in the blackmail. Maybe it goes back to whatever happened in 'Nam—"

"What the hell _did_ happen there?" The judge's voice rose in frustration.

"I don't know. Tom didn't say. He never wrote you about anything? He never said when he got back?"

"He couldn't even talk when he first got back," Hardcastle said bitterly. "It was months before he could do anything for himself, and even then he didn't remember anything about what had happened. They told us it was a Viet Cong hand grenade."

"The grenade, most likely, but I'll bet they didn't get any fingerprints off it."

"He was _fragged_?"

"Not by his own men. I think Chassell, or maybe Tank, or both of them had a hand in it. Tom saw something. He knew _something._ He went to somebody about it. He said he wished he could talk to you about it. That was early in November. There might be a report somewhere, or maybe the person he talked to just told him he'd look into it—so late in the war, and peace negotiations going on—a bad time for bad publicity. Anyway, Tom said nothing came of it, and after that he sounded worried." Mark pulled up, feeling breathless. He saw the judge thumbing open the book, leafing through to the last pages.

"I suppose the first time might even have been an accident," Mark admitted. "We'll never know for sure, but if it was it was awfully damn convenient. Chassell must've thought his problems were over, at any rate."

"He wrote me, asking about Tom, early on. He sounded concerned. I told him how serious things were."

"_Concerned._ Yeah. He probably was." Mark shook his head. "Then he gets through his hitch—comes back here, and calls up again to check on Tom, right?"

"I told him how much better he was doing. That he was talking, starting to get things back." Hardcastle had the pallor of a ghost himself. "Oh my God."

"Chassell came over, to see for himself," Mark said soberly. "I can't tell you what he was thinking. Tom said he took risks; he knew how to make the most of an opportunity. But he came prepared—he had Tank drop him off with instructions to stay back, out of sight."

"How the hell did he think he could get away with it?"

"He did, though. He waited until the coast was clear, got Tom to let him in, probably talked to him a few minutes. Maybe that shook something loose for Tom, who knows? Maybe Tom was even the one who took out the gun, if he even realized the danger.

"Anyway, it all worked perfectly for Chassell. He bolted the door from the inside, shot Tom in the head, put the gun in his hand and fired it again once, into the wall. Then he stepped back and got out of sight, while you broke the door in. If you'd seen him he probably would have killed you, too, and arranged it to look like a murder suicide. If you'd stayed put with Tom, he would have gone out the window in the kitchenette, joined up with Tank, and still gotten away clean. It would have been just a little less airtight for a suicide."

"But I ran out—I left him there with Tom."

"Tom was already gone. And all Chassell wanted to do was get out through that door you'd opened and get back to where Tank was driving in, so he could make his timely appearance when you came out of the main house again. Who would suspect him? By the time he was on the scene it was all over."

"No proof," Hardcastle muttered, but it was 'no proof', not 'I don't believe you.'

Mark let out a long, slow breath. "No," he said. "Not much chance of proof at this point, but at least some chance at the truth. For Tom. For _you_."

He never found out what Hardcastle's opinion of the truth was, because that was the moment when the phone rang.

It jerked them both back out of the haze of reconstruction. Mark was galvanized into movement first and had the phone in his hand before he even gave thought to who it might be.

"_Mark_?" It was Frank. "_I'm trying to reach Milt. He come home yet_?"

"Yeah." Mark looked up at the judge, who was sinking down into the chair opposite the sofa. "He's here." He handed the phone over.

Hardcastle took it without fumbling, looking strangely in control of himself and answering in a voice that was only a little strained. Mark couldn't make out Frank's end of things, only that it started up suddenly and went on with no appreciable break for more than a minute. It was only then that the judge interjected his first question.

"And what about the other guy? He's okay?"

It wasn't apparently a yes or no answer. Who it was about, and whether the answer was mostly yes or mostly no, was also not clear.

"Okay, then," the judge finally said wearily, and paused for a moment as if he were having some trouble figuring out where to go from there. He took another breath. "Okay, you keep us posted."

'_Us_'. Mark focused on that one word. The rest of whatever Frank had seen fit to call about faded into the background. He felt too wrung out to be curious.

Hardcastle must have felt the same way. He put the receiver back and set the phone on the table, then edged back, sitting quietly for a moment, saying nothing.

'Us' might be more like a habit, Mark thought. This could be the long quiet moment right before the drop. Didn't matter—he had nothing left to say, no case left to plead.

"Frank says Chassell's dead."

Mark's head jerked up suddenly. "How'd he—?"

"He's the duty officer tonight, got a call about a homicide. Recognized the name, of course."

Mark blinked. There was something wearily resigned to that 'of course'. Further evidence to the judge of the ongoing conspiracy between his purported friends, McCormick supposed.

"They've already got Tanckowski in custody. He's claiming self-defense." Hardcastle shrugged. "Might be true. It was Chassell's gun. Might be Tank was tired of being an accessory. Chassell probably wanted to finish this with you and me."

"You think he'll tell that version?"

"Not if he has a smart lawyer." Hardcastle sighed. Then he looked up, his gaze going sharper. "Just so long as he doesn't tell the part about him driving his boss to a meeting with you tonight."

It has been added quietly but clearly. The wave of relief caught Mark completely by surprise. It wasn't that he'd been worrying about the consequences of his rendezvous with Chassell, but _Hardcastle_ was, even in the midst of all the rest of this.

Mark felt like he'd clawed his way back up onto slightly thicker ice—still bitterly cold, but above water for the time being.

"So what do we do now?" McCormick said, willing to let the other man take any meaning from it that he wished.

And, understandably, the judge chose the simplest solution—for now.

"We get some sleep." He looked down at his wrist, frowning at his watch. "Been a long day."

Mark noticed he hadn't put the book down, not even while dealing with the phone call from Frank. He suspected that Hardcastle wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight, but there was nothing to be done about that, except to be around in the morning for him.

"Okay," Mark said. "I'll be here." He winced slightly at the awkwardness of that. "I mean, if you need me." Worse and worse. He shook his head slightly.

He looked up, embarrassedly, and noticed the judge was still frowning, though it didn't seem to be in response to what he'd said. It was a slightly detached expression, which held for a moment and then was broken with a slight twitch of the man's chin and a refocusing of his eyes.

"Here," he said, echoing Mark's own word with a hint of puzzlement, as though he couldn't quite place where he'd heard it. Then he looked around. "Doesn't bother you?" he asked with a persistent air of grim bemusement.

It was the most astonishing question, the idea that it would somehow _bother_ him, living in what had once been the scene of a murder. How was he supposed to explain that what had really terrified him was the almost certain notion that he'd have to leave it? That he'd no longer be welcome here.

Mark finally sighed. It wasn't something he could explain, so he just fell back on acceptance. "I don't mind. Maybe he's been here all along. Maybe that's why I found that book."

He saw Hardcastle's brow tighten briefly and thought maybe that'd been a mistake, to mention the circumstances again like that. But the older man's voice was only mildly peeved when he uttered a quick 'hmmph' and then, "Ya always believed in all that stuff—ghosts and signs and mysteries."

"Maybe," Mark said thoughtfully. "Ghosts, yeah, and signs . . . but I've never really liked mysteries. That's the problem."

"No kiddin'," Hardcastle said, and he clearly wasn't.

Mark twitched a little nervously, but nothing more came from the man, not even a request for more explanation—of what he had done, of _why_. He wondered if that would come, eventually, or if the judge would just go to Frank for the rest of the story, which might be easier on both of them.

"Anyway," he finally said, looking around at the room, at his _home_, "I don't mind sharing."

The judge came up slowly from what had been apparently another slow submergence into memory.

"No," he said with more quiet certitude that might seem expected from a man who didn't believe in ghosts, "I don't think he would, either."


	2. Chapter 2

Part II--Support Group

**Part II--Support Group**

Twice during that night Mark McCormick awoke from a fitful and disturbed sleep. Each time he untangled himself from the covers, then got out of bed and wandered over to the window that faced out toward the main house. He could, though the tops of the trees, make out a glimmer of light from the second story window there, from which he'd surmised that Hardcastle was having no easier a time of it.

He imagined the man was still reading his dead son's journal. Or maybe he'd put it down, and gone back to dwelling on the last day of Tom's life—how he might have prevented his son's death or, barring that, somehow seen it for what it was, a murder, not a suicide.

To Mark, it was a tragedy—but dead was dead, and had Tom really put the gun to his own head and pulled the trigger, he could hardly have blamed him. But he knew that the judge would see things differently, that he would hold himself responsible somehow for failing to solve the mystery—for not even realizing there was a mystery to be solved.

The third time Mark lay down, he assumed he would study the ceiling for while, perhaps all the way till dawn. Instead, he finally sank, far deeper than before, into the sleep of two days' exhaustion.

He awoke to the awareness of a dim light, indirect. It wasn't dawn; it was coming from down past the foot of his bed, below the balcony edge. _Hardcastle_, he thought, with sudden, fully awake certainty. _He needs to talk. _

The covers weren't so tangled this time. He threw them off and had both feet over the side, on the floor. He didn't bother with shoes, padding silently to the top of the steps, shielding his eyes from the lamp while they adjusted. He saw the back, hunched forward in the chair, otherwise motionless.

He squinted a little as he took the steps. He worried that he'd been unintentionally silent, that he might startle the man. He started to clear his throat, at the same moment he realized there was something very wrong.

The general shape, the angle of the head was familiar, but even in the light of the single lamp, well across the room, there was a red-brown tinge to the hair, which was both too short, and thicker than the judge's.

The man whose face was turning, wasn't the judge, though the brief mistake of identity seemed understandable.

"Tom?" Mark wasn't sure exactly how he knew, but he was certain. "What the hell are you doing here?"

It seemed a tad ungracious, after all, this had been the man's home, and he had far more right to it than its current occupant, Mark figured. Still, it was a little surprising to see him sitting there. The kid—for he really was just a kid, nineteen, tops—didn't seem to take offense. The smile was familiar, too. Mark waited for him to say something. He thought the tone would be recognizable as well as the cadence—he'd spent enough time pouring over the journal the past two days.

But Tom merely shrugged slowly. For a moment it seemed as though he'd say nothing at all. Mark remembered that he'd been seriously injured; speech had been a challenge for him after that.

"Um, sorry," McCormick said in a moment of fluster. "Didn't mean to put it like that." He frowned, looking a little closer at the younger man. The reddish tint to the hair seemed more prominent on the right side. He had a notion that if he stepped a little further over in that direction—he swallowed hard and averted his eyes.

"It's not _that_ bad, is it?"

Mark dragged his gaze back down, taking in the easy grin that had only the slightest hint of worry to it.

"Nah," he finally said, and then, "Are you . . .?"

"Dead?" The young man prompted. "S'pose so. He looked down at himself. The slightly greater tilt of his head confirmed a certain dark glistening void on the side, just behind his ear. "Doesn't feel all that different. Lotta fuss for nothing, if you ask me."

"That's . . . good to know." Mark eased himself down into a chair; for one thing, it helped obscure the sight lines. He looked around at the room, otherwise unchanged from a few hours earlier when he'd done his show and tell for the judge. He jerked his face back, taking in Tom's countenance, open, somehow exactly what Mark had expected.

"You don't mind, do you?" He felt a little silly asking, even sillier when Tom said nothing further right away. "Sharing, I mean," Mark flustered on.

"Huh?" Tom's smile had gone quizzical. "You mean this place . . . or _him_?"

"Oh," McCormick said hastily, "the place."

The other man's grin went a little broader. "I'm not around much anymore."

"That's what you think." Mark quirked a smile of his own. "Hey," he said suddenly, "did you mean for me to find your journal?"

Tom frowned slightly, as if in thought. "I dunno," he finally said. "I don't think I _planned_ it. Hell, stuff was always falling behind that drawer."

"Oh," Mark felt a little disappointed. "Yeah, I suppose."

"It's not like a guy can reach out from beyond the grave or something." Tom shook his head.

Mark winced; he thought the hair was a little too thick and damp on that one side but there was no outright spattering when he moved it.

"I dunno," the younger man said with an air of chagrin. "I don't really think I believe in ghosts."

"Figures," McCormick said. "Your dad doesn't, either." Another thought occurred to him; he hesitated nervously for a moment before he finally broached it.

"Listen, is there anything you want me to tell him—anything he should know?"

The grin was back. "What are you gonna do, say you had a séance out here?"

Mark let out a long sigh and said, "Will you be serious, Tom? You know, we've had a kinda rough weekend. I thought maybe—"

"No, nothing," Tom said, suddenly not so lighthearted. "We weren't all that good at talking before. If I started now, it'd seem weird." There was a moment of strained silence, as if to underline the point and then the younger man looked at him with an air that seemed somewhat critical and said, "You ought to get some sleep. You look like shit."

"Hmmph," Mark nodded. He got up, feeling a little stiff. _Not as stiff as the other guy. _He smiled, then stifled it guilty. He thought he'd seen an echoing smile on Tom's face.

"You get some rest, too," he said, feeling a little foolish when he heard the words slip out.

Tom grunted. Mark didn't turn back, but continued his ascent, slow and weary.

00000

It was morning. Under the cloud of other concerns, Mark hadn't remembered to set the alarm clock, and his usual back-up 6:30 am system hadn't made it to the basketball court this morning. McCormick sat up in bed, scrubbing his face and feeling ill-rested.

That last dream, vivid and obvious in its origins, still seemed half-real. He was almost cussing himself for an idiot, not to have quizzed Tom about the more mysterious aspects of the case—what _had_ he seen John Chassell do in 'Nam? Why had the man been so determined that Tom be silenced?

Never mind, he finally decided, as he dragged himself out from under the covers, with any kind of luck—and a day of dwelling on the question—he'd get to ask the more recently deceased Chassell those questions himself, sometime in the darkest hours tonight.

He showered, he pulled on some clothes. He thought about breakfast, the importance of maintaining a _routine_ when things were going to hell in a handbasket.

But somehow he couldn't bring himself to put in an appearance over in the kitchen of the main house. He chalked it up to the fact that he was running late for class, and augmented that doubtful reasoning with the notion that Hardcastle was probably still asleep. This, too, might have accounted for the particularly furtive way in which he approached the garage, and the minimal warm-up he permitted the Coyote, before backing it out with unusual attention to silent running.

He was out on the highway, heading south, before he permitted himself to think about the situation again. It might be that Hardcastle would accept it—Mark's own intrusion, his breech of faith and trust—as a fair trade-off for knowledge gained. But somehow McCormick didn't think the judge was an ends-justify-the-means sort of guy. And if he did accept any part of it at all, it would be with the caveat that he could never really be trusted again.

Mark frowned out at the early morning sun, and the painful bright light of truth. As much as it seemed unfair, to be able to squander nearly five years in a single weekend, he knew it could be done. Trust, with Hardcastle, was an all or nothing at all proposition. He'd heard the man address such matters in the abstract often enough.

The only question that remained was whether or not they could they function—a limited partnership with boundaries and barriers. Fixing it seemed out of the question, but walking away from it, broken as it was, seemed yet a further betrayal.

By the time he'd parked his car in the student lot, he'd convinced himself, he thought. He wouldn't leave unless it was at Hardcastle's request, even if he had to skulk around, guilty as not-quite-charged.

He attended his two classes, more than half-distracted and still bone-weary—only part of it from lack of sleep. It surprised him to realize it wasn't even noon then. The morning has seemed far longer than just a morning. He remembered, with a quiet jerk of conscience, that he still had research to do for Dr. Sturgis—the thing that had triggered all of this seemed so much longer ago than merely Friday evening.

He headed for the library, a better choice by far than going back to the estate. He fortified himself with a cup of coffee in the basement vending room, and then he headed upstairs, to finish what he'd started three days earlier.

It didn't take him all that long. He still had most of the call slips he'd completed from the previous session. He handed them in, got the materials, and found a copy machine that wasn't already in use. He was able to condense it down to a manageable carrying load and get out before the less virtuous late afternoon crowd started to build.

He walked across campus to the history department and made his way, in fits and starts in the creaky old elevator, to the fourth floor. He almost regretted the light from behind the large pane of frosted glass. He'd half hoped to find Sturgis' office closed and dark. He'd already mentally composed the quick note he'd intended to leave on the department secretary's desk, along with the materials.

No such luck. He thought he might never have any luck again. He tapped once lightly on the door with his barely free hand, heard a soft, "Come in, it's open", nudged the door with his foot, and tried to present as bland a face as he was capable of.

"I think this is most of it," he said off-handedly.

Sturgis looked up from what he'd been doing and beamed. "So fast? I really didn't expect it till closer to the end of the week. Careful, Mark, you'll make my regular research assistants look bad."

"Oh, I'm sure you gave me the easy assignment." Mark smiled. It might have been a little wan, but gave it some effort. "Anyway," he reached into his briefcase and pulled out the list, "I didn't get 'em all. There were a couple . . ."

He paused, glanced at the piece of paper, and then held it out, nonchalantly. The circle around the one item—he was hoping not to have to explain that he wasn't going back to the room that housed the Hardcastle Memorial Collection anytime soon. He'd gladly let Sturgis' regular research assistant take the credit for that one.

The professor took the list, and glancing at it, and then up at him. There was a hint of concern to Sturgis' expression. Mark wondered again if the man had known where he'd been sending him.

But, no, the older man's concern seemed more general—"You look a little done in. I hope this didn't run you ragged this weekend."

Mark forced his smile into a grin and shook his head. "No, your research projects are way tamer than Hardcastle's. I practically had the weekend off."

Sturgis nodded doubtfully, but looked so willing to listen that Mark had to fight off a sudden notion to unburden himself. It had occurred to him that this was another one of the judge's old associates, that he, too must have known all about Tom's death—or what had passed for the truth of it fifteen year ago. The secret had really been no secret at all, to everyone but the newcomer. And everyone had done their part to bury Tom Hardcastle.

He wondered how the truth would now be dispersed, or even if it would at all, left in Hardcastle's hands—if the pain of talking about it would outweigh the need to set the story straight. He could do that bit, he supposed, except that he was already on probation.

Sturgis had turned back to his research gleanings again, looking eager to have at them. The moment for unbarring souls had passed, and Mark was vaguely relieved.

"I'd better get going," he said, nonchalant again, and getting no more than another quick, grateful smile from the professor, he departed.

00000

It was a few hours short of dinnertime, and Mark still felt a reluctance to head home. Some part of him knew he'd have to do it sooner or later, another part was still voting later. He didn't think he would have resorted to merely driving aimlessly, though, had he not had one more stop to make.

The police station where Frank kept his desk had visitor parking in front of the building. McCormick spotted the silver and black truck there, in a spot that it occupied so often that it might as well have been marked: 'Reserved—M. Hardcastle'. He pulled past quickly, and around the building, to the side opposite Frank's office. He caught his breath and considered his options.

It wasn't as if he hadn't figured the judge would be stopping off here today. The only other possibility would have been Frank getting a summons to Gulls Way. There was a good chance that Harper had figured a public meeting place would be easier, or, he supposed, it was Hardcastle who had been summoned, regarding their role in the events leading up to John Chassell's death last night.

Mark chewed on his lip and considered this latter possibility. If that were the case, there was no way he wanted to encounter Frank before he had a chance to get his story aligned with Hardcastle's. He hoped their partnership still extended that far.

He cast a slow look to his right, then backed out of the spot and, as nearly as was possible in his all-too-obvious vehicle, slunk off. The truck was still parked, foursquare and unrevealing, right in front of the station door.

00000

He contemplated dinner, appetiteless though he was. Hardcastle still hadn't returned home. He considered the grill, located on the more neutral territory of the patio, but that was a scant stone's throw from the gatehouse. He finally decided there was no common ground for them and at least if things became hot in the kitchen of the main house, he could retreat.

He was nearly finished with the preparations and it was well on toward dark when he heard the truck in the drive and, a few moments later, the front door opening. There was no greeting, but, then, there was no way for Hardcastle to be sure he was in here and he'd kept unaccustomedly quiet himself.

The footsteps were headed in his direction, though and he went into a small flurry of motion, deigned to cover nervousness and occupy worried silence.

"Dinner's just about ready," he said, in a tone that sounded artificially normal to him.

He got a grunt, risked a glance over his shoulder, and noticed that the judge had file folder tucked under his arm in a manner that looked almost protective. It was the right thickness, and, considering he knew where the man had come from, it seemed almost a certainty that it was Harper's file concerning Tom's death. Mark turned away again and mastered a frown. It wasn't as if Frank couldn't reacquire a second copy, but this might be some sort of symbolic stripping of access, done by Hardcastle to convey his displeasure.

The alternative was that the judge still felt compelled to pursue the loose ends—the whys and wherefores of Lt. Chassell's actions, or maybe further retribution against his probable accomplice, Sergeant Tanckowski. But he could hardly ask the man if that was the case—not now, not with his own botched intrusion so recent.

He sighed. He'd have to bring it up. He half-figured Hardcastle would expect it, after all, why else would he have carried the file in—practically flaunting his intentions—if that's what his intentions were at all.

He turned the stove off and carried the pan to the table. Hardcastle had set his papers down and was at the sink, washing his hands with a particular thoroughness that might have implied he'd gotten them pretty dirty that afternoon.

Mark found his eyes drawn again to the folder, now left setting on the counter. He broke away almost as soon as he'd see Hardcastle reach to turn off the faucet, but it was already too late.

"Don't have to show it to _you_, I suppose," the judge said dryly.

Mark shook his head once and pulled a chair away from the table, sitting heavily.

"I dunno," Hardcastle held back a moment, then sat down slowly, "I read it all . . ." He trailed off, leaving Mark to wander if 'all' included the journal. Hardcastle cleared his throat with an unaccustomed hesitancy. "That story you slung last night made a lot of sense, but there's nothing anywhere that makes it more than a theory."

"Only three people know, and two of them are dead." Mark couldn't help himself; it had slipped out before he could consider the ramifications.

"Yeah," Hardcastle said, letting out the rest of the breath as if he'd already thought it through. "They've leaned on Tanckowski some—of course the guys doing the leaning didn't know what Frank and I knew."

He'd paused again, as if to give Mark a chance to catch up.

"You think Tank'll try to implicate us," McCormick said wearily, "if we point them in the right direction? Look, Judge," he added, with hardly a pause, "I don't care. Really, I don't. I—"

He'd been about to say 'I didn't do anything wrong', which was sophistry, treading perilously close to an outright lie. He thought he'd used up his quota of them for the week, and it was only Monday. He shifted sharply to the more defensible, "I think he won't risk it. It'd open up too many new motives for the homicide guys. Motives for _him,_ I mean. Besides," he felt his shoulders slump back down, "I don't care. You do what's right."

"Don't care, huh?" Hardcastle shook his head. "Well, you oughta. We got your hearing in front of the Bar Committee coming up in two weeks. A whiff of this is all it would take to knock that flat. There are guys over there who think, pardon or no pardon, an ex-con is an ethics risk."

Mark fought back the urge to say, "Maybe they're right." Agreeing never shortened arguments with Hardcastle, it just shifted the scolding to a new level of pained disbelief. He was tired, and he wanted someone else to make some decisions for him, cowardly as that might seem. He'd live with the consequences; he was too weary to fight.

"I'm not very hungry," he said abruptly. "I didn't get much sleep last night." He pointedly didn't mention who'd kept him up. "I think I'm going to turn in early."

Hardcastle looked over his shoulder at the clock and then back at Mark in disbelief. "It's only seven-thirty. You sick or something?"

"Just tired," Mark repeated quietly. "You decide what you want to do about Tanckowski. I don't want to see him get away with murder."

He figured that was a clear enough indictment. Neither one of them thought _Chassell's_ death had been unprovoked. It was Tom's that was the matter at hand.

He was on his feet, fought a brief sway—the kitchen really was uncommonly hot—and then made for the back door, the shortest possible route to escape. Hardcastle didn't try to stop him.

00000

Of course once he was back in the refuge of the gate house, he couldn't sleep. There were too many things gnawing at him, mind and body. He considered calling Frank but decided that after an afternoon with the judge, the man probably needed a break.

He sighed, kicked his shoes off, and stretched out on the bed without even bothering to turn down the covers. Frank, first thing in the morning, he decided. He didn't have class on Tuesdays until eleven.

This thought was interrupted by a tapping sound, not quite solid enough to be someone rapping on the door—besides, Hardcase never knocked except as the briefest of preludes to shouting, 'You there?' and barging in anyway. This was more of an irregular, not quite human tapping.

He rolled out of bed and headed for the stairs. "Oh," he said, seeing the figure down below, sitting in the chair, "you might have at least waited until I was asleep."

"Who says you aren't?" Tom asked with a smile. "Besides, that might've taken all night."

Mark grimaced. He supposed it was true. Then he heard the tapping again and frowned. Tom wasn't making any obvious motions to explain it. _You left the door unlocked, it's loose in the jamb and the wind is picking up._

"He never had that security bolt put back on," Tom said, with a glance toward the source of the noise.

"He likes to come and go as he pleases," Mark shrugged, "after all, it's his place." Then he gave the younger man a penetrating look. "I'd say you're a lot like him in that regard."

"Oh," Tom grinned, "that hurt. Come on, man, two visits in, how long's it been?"

"Two nights."

"No, I mean . . . altogether."

"For you? 'Bout fifteen years."

Tom gave a low whistle. "That long, huh?" Then he smiled, albeit with a tinge of regret. "Hardly a haunting."

"It will be if you keep it up," Mark said. He heard the slight edge of irritation to his tone, and almost immediately muttered a regretful, "Sorry."

"'Sokay. Shoulda figured. People move on, Things change."

"He hasn't."

Tom glanced up at him, looking unconvinced.

"I dunno," Mark added, "maybe he has some. All I know is that every time you _didn't_ come up in the conversation, well, he still looked like it was a big deal." He shook his head. He dropped down into the other chair. "You know, I don't know why you're coming to _me _with all this.

The younger man looked a bit removed, or maybe it was just evasive.

"Not exactly sure," he finally said. "Mighta thought we had something in common."

"Nope," Mark shook his head once, sharply. "He said I'm no substitute. Those were his very words. I remember that exactly."

"Too bad."

"Huh?"

"I said 'too bad'." Tom sighed.

Mark looked away, feeling a twinge of embarrassment.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Tom asked, sounding impatient.

A shrug and a quick glance back, then away again—then Mark finally muttered, "That'd be nice and all, hearing that, if it weren't coming from my subconscious. I mean, you yourself said you don't believe in ghosts."

"Yeah," Tom said lightly, "but _you_ do."

McCormick looked over at him more steadily. After another moment of exhausted pondering he frowned and decided he was too tired to figure it out.

"Okay, you tell me something about yourself that I couldn't know—then I'll check on it with him tomorrow. Then we'll know for sure."

"You'd actually do that," Tom looked astonished, "check with him? You _are_ crazy."

Mark suppressed a sudden notion that he ought to be listening to his subconscious on this one, but he managed a wan smile. "Yeah, that's what they tell me."

"Okay," Tom lolled his head back, turning slightly to the right and staring at the ceiling for a moment. Mark wondered if he was going to leave a stain on the back of the chair. He hoped it wouldn't be one that only he could see. "Oh," the younger man snapped back up suddenly, "I got it. My favorite dessert is pecan pie."

Mark considered him for a moment and then said, "That's not exactly the secrets of the universe, you're handing out there, Tom. That's your _dad's_ favorite dessert, too."

Tom frowned at him. "We weren't all that much alike, you know."

"Apparently when it comes to dessert you were," Mark replied practically. There was nothing but a stubborn silence from Tom. McCormick sighed again and brushed aside the other man's chagrin. "Look, how 'bout something _useful_? Maybe you could tell me why the hell Chassell wanted you dead."

He thought he'd seen Tom start to reach up to the side of his head—an unselfconscious movement, but one that was quickly aborted. Then came a muttered, "How the hell should I know? I don't even hardly remember getting shot. It's easier that way, isn't it?"

Mark, having been shot before, had to agree with that.

"Okay, he said after a moment, "you're no help at all. Besides, that wouldn't be something I could really check on, anyway." He frowned. "Hey, how 'bout the name of the guy you talked to over there, the one you went to after whatever it was that happened."

Tom at least had acquired a look of deep concentration, though there was a layer of something resembling doubt there and he said, "How'm I supposed to remember who I talked to, if I can't even remember what I talked to him about?" But there was hardly a pause before he added, "but if I went to anyone, it would've been Captain Brown."

"Okay, that's a start," Mark smiled, trying to look approving. "Maybe if you think about it some more, the rest'll come back to you."

"I don't think it's gonna work . . . I was pretty damaged." There was an air of ruefulness, not particularly tragic, though. "You saw those reports. You understand, don't you?"

Mark nodded, almost reluctantly.

"_He_ didn't, though. He expects a helluva lot sometimes. Never give up. Never say die."

"I know."

"I think I was the only one at boot camp who thought the drill sergeants were okay guys."

Mark couldn't help it, he laughed. The younger man was smiling too, but then that edged into an awkward silence. Tom finally broke it with, "You really oughta get some sleep. You look like shit."

McCormick thought that was probably true, but he said, "What about you? I'm mean, it'd be kinda rude if I—"

"Don't worry. I'm used to it, being alone." Tom's smile was a little tight. "You don't mind if I—"

"It's your place," Mark said hastily. "_Was_ yours . . . whatever." He shook his head nervously. "Make yourself at home."

He rose quickly, as if to emphasize the point that he was by no means a host—Tom _was_ home. He mounted the stairs without so much as a good night or a glance back, treating his visitor with the casual disregard of family. He made it all the way to bed before he was struck by that, and by then it was too late to correct the gaffe without drawing attention to it.

It was morning.

He blinked, still lying on the covers as if he'd fallen there dead. He remembered, after only a slight confused hesitance, that it was Tuesday, and he ordinarily didn't need an alarm clock on Tuesdays—at least none earlier than Hardcastle's occasional miss from the free throw line.

He'd quite clearly heard one of those just a moment ago—that was what had wakened him. This token of a return to normality was heartening, though he half-wished the Hardcastles weren't tag teaming him.

He dragged himself off the bed, feeling as though he'd gotten no sleep at all. He made a quick decision that a change of clothes was in order, for appearance's sake, He had no desire to be at the receiving end of one of Hardcase's penetrating studies because he was still wearing precisely what he had on the evening before.

That only took a moment, though, and he half-stumbled on the stairs, hastening his arrival at the bottom. He shook himself, and tried to avoid looking at the chair that had been occupied the night before. There was no one there now and, as far as his surreptitious glance had determined, no unfortunate stains where Tom's head had rested. He had visions of himself pinning up little antimacassars, the sort of thing the Aunts favored.

The notion brought a grim smile to his face, and that stayed with him as he opened the door—still unlocked, he noted—and headed outside.

"You up finally?" Hardcastle drawled with his usual air of thoughtful concern. "I figured you'd be waiting for me, going to bed that early."

Mark scratched his head, grumbled something appropriate, and joined him on the court. Hardcastle tossed the ball to him and he took it out, letting reflexes substitute for conscious thought.

He might have been more tired than he'd thought, or maybe focus was more important than he'd realized. He was glad, though, when the final score was 21-12 in Hardcastle's favor. It was more of a spread than he was used to, but he thought it might have been worse still if the judge hadn't also been not quite connected with the game.

It was nice though, this little stab at reestablishing the routine—not that he believed he'd been entirely forgiven. He knew Hardcastle played basketball the way some guys raked sand—it was a form of meditation for him: Zen with elbows.

And, in truth, now that they game was finished, the judge didn't seem all that talkative, not even a decent crow about his nine point spread and Mark winding up on the concrete a couple of times. Instead there was a fairly restrained inquiry.

"You eaten yet?"

Mark thought it was fairly obvious that he hadn't, but phrasing it as a question might be allowing for an out. He checked his watch, aware that Hardcastle knew his schedule as well as he did. Class wouldn't be an excuse for another three hours.

"Gotta take a shower and hit the road," Mark said quickly, fishing for a plausible lie. Oddly, the judge provided it.

"More library stuff, huh?"

McCormick controlled his initial jerk of surprise, then looked up slowly and nodded. The judge frowned but didn't say anything else until Mark was turning to go.

"Dinner, then," he added, almost quietly. "I'll grill."

That'd mean the patio, the scene of Sunday night's debacle, or at least the first part of it. Mark swallowed once, hard, and kept his response to another nod.

00000

He got himself ready efficiently, in keeping with what he'd said about needing to get going. He only cast a few sideward glances at the chair he was rapidly beginning to think of as Tom's favorite. By the time he headed out, it was shortly after eight. Hardcastle was nowhere in sight, but both the truck and the 'Vette were still there.

Good enough, not that he thought the man would visit Frank two days in a row, though he had no intention of parking the Coyote out in plain sight in front of the police station. Instead, he pulled around back, though it wouldn't do him much good if the judge _did_ decide he had a few more things to say to the lieutenant.

He climbed out and moseyed in, aiming for low-key. He'd wandered through the place enough times in the past five years, that his presence was mostly taken for granted. A few people even nodded a hello. He smiled back when indicated.

"Frank in?" he asked the person at the desk closest to Harper's office, as if he were still hoping for a last minute reprieve.

But the guy just looked up, glanced over his shoulder in the right direction, and said, "Yeah, I think so."

Mark hoped his grimace wasn't too apparent. Then he nodded and strolled nonchalantly toward Frank's door. Two quick knocks and it was all over; he heard a sharp "Come in" from the other side.

He entered, trying not to look too guilty. Frank glanced up, then fastened him with a sterner, longer look, that didn't harbor any surprise. He stopped just short of what probably would have been a not-too-happy 'It you again, huh?'

Mark flashed a quick, nervous smile and slipped into a chair, trying to look like he wouldn't take up much time. Frank didn't look like he was in any particular hurry, though. The first thing out of his mouth as a long, hard sigh and then, "How come you didn't mention you had _evidence_?"

Mark frowned, then cocked his head slightly. "Cause I didn't." He hoped it hadn't come out sounding like a smart remark. He hadn't intended it that way.

"The journal, dammit."

Mark's frown deepened. "Evidence of what? It didn't prove anything except that Tom was worried about something right before he was wounded."

Harper was frowning now, too. "Milt made it sound a lot more definite."

Mark shook his head. "No, nothing like that, that's just him and wishful thinking, though I'll grant you Chassell _acted_ guilty as hell."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Milt was a little vague. You wanna tell me what happened with all of that Sunday night?"

"Not without my lawyer present," Mark said dryly. "And I think since he already went with vague, we maybe better leave it at that. I didn't say anything that would hold up in a court of law, I can promise you that."

"I'm glad you're getting something out of all that money the man's spending on your education."

"You can't guilt it out of me, either, Frank. The only guy who can do that already knows exactly what went down."

"Okay." Harper sat back, looking like he'd sacrifice that round, but wasn't ready to throw in the towel. "But tell me this—why the hell didn't you at least mention the journal to _me_? Direct evidence or not, there must've been something in there that set you off after Chassell."

Mark sat quietly for a moment, then looked up and said, "Telling you's the same as telling him. That's what I figured. Am I right?"

Frank didn't try to deny the last part. "And so why couldn't you tell him? Five _years_, you had it?"

Now they'd come round to that, sooner, and by a more direct route than Mark would have imagined. It was next to impossible to explain his original motivations—what it had been like between him and Hardcase that first couple of weeks after he'd moved to Gulls Way. He let out a breath. He was really tired of trying.

The offensive was easier. "Five years," he said sharply, "and nobody saw fit to tell me what had really happened. What you _thought_ had happened. None of my business, I suppose that's true. I just share a mailing address with the man's father. I walk across the spot where the evidence tape was ten times a day."

Frank grimaced. Mark knew he'd struck home and almost immediately felt a twinge of guilt at his success. He understood better than anyone how Hardcastle could cast an aura of command around himself. People did his bidding, sometimes without him even having to say what it was. He'd been in the thrall long enough to know it wasn't something the others had a lot of choice about.

He made a sharp gesture with his hand, sweeping everything he'd said away. "It's okay. Mutual misunderstanding. But I didn't sit on it. It wasn't something I did on purpose, okay? I found it at an awkward time." _Right before a felony._ An incongruous smile crept out. He swatted it down. "I put it up on a shelf, and I pretty much forgot about it. I might never have looked at it if it hadn't been for the damn date on the plaque in the library."

Harper nodded. "If it makes you feel any better, I think he kind of gets that."

Mark looked grim. "Well, maybe that part. Maybe theoretically. But the rest of it I'm not so sure."

"He's got the file, now," Frank said with a jerk of his chin down toward the drawer where it had been.

"Yeah, I thought so. I saw him with it yesterday. What I want to know is, what does he plan to do with it?"

"Dunno." Frank shrugged. "Sounded like maybe he wanted to review the evidence, make sure he didn't miss something the first time. A kind of absolution."

Mark shook his head wearily. "He saw exactly what he was supposed to see."

"He told me your theory."

"I know, I know. I'm crazy."

"I didn't say that. It sounded pretty reasonable to me, at least given what Chassell and Tanckowski did Sunday night."

"Okay," Mark said slowly, "Maybe I'm right," he cast a long look out Frank's window, "but I'm still probably crazy."

Frank's laugh was short and a little sharp. "Yeah, you have a point there." Then he frowned, Mark felt a more intent look that drew his eyes back from the view outside. Harper was giving him the once over. "Listen, you gotta cut yourself a little slack on all this, Mark. Sure he's mad, but it's mostly not at you. He's mad at Chassell, and a lot of that is because the guy up and died before he could pound the truth out of him."

Mark smiled wanly. As hyperbole went, it had a solid core of truth to it.

"And he's mad at himself, for falling for the . . . the—"

"_Deception_." Mark interjected, with solemn emphasis. He'd had the feeling that Frank had been on the verge of calling it a scam, and somehow that ordinary word seemed to fall far short of the cruelty of the thing.

Frank seemed to give the substitution a moment of consideration. Then he nodded once in brisk agreement. "And I think he's even a little mad because he gave you such a hard time, when all you were trying to do was help."

This seemed like shakier ground to McCormick, more wishful thinking. He was grateful that Harper was trying to think along the same lines as he, but, no—

"I pried, and I sneaked around, and I kept things from him. I think he's got a right to be a little pissed."

"He'll get over it," Frank assured him. "I think he may already be getting there. Don't give up on him."

"I haven't yet." Mark got up slowly, aware that Frank was still looking at him.

"You might want to get a little rest," the lieutenant said. "You look beat."

"Classes," Mark shrugged casually. "Too much to do. I'll rest when I'm dead." He'd already turned toward the door and only caught Frank's answering grimace out of the corner of his eye.

00000

He drove over to school, half surprised to have arrived with plenty of time to spare. The visit to Frank's had felt far longer than it actually had been. He still had an extra hour to kill. He thought about finding a sofa somewhere in a lounge and making use of it but he thought that would just make tonight a little longer.

He recalled his little bit of unfinished research for Sturgis. He thought about how he'd not wanted to spend on more moment in the room dedicated to Tom Hardcastle's memory. It seemed a matter of almost foolish cowardice, now that he knew the guy. He checked his watch briefly one more time and then turned left, heading for the library.

His second exposure to the place was less of a shock. He was able to look more closely at the bas relief and realize where he'd gotten the three-dimensional image of the man from. He put the key ring on the table, took the book down from the shelf, and sat down in the familiar wingback leather chair.

Now that he'd had a chance to study that more closely, as well, his initial impression of it was confirmed, too. It most certainly was a direct gift from Hardcastle's study. He wondered if it had any particular significance beyond that—if Tom had had a favorite chair for watching shoot-em-ups with his dad.

He found himself making a mental note to ask him next time he saw him—Tom, not the judge—and then he pulled up sharply from that thought and shook his head. It was nonsense, all utter nonsense. Well, maybe nothing quite so lighthearted, but most certainly the product of his own too-fertile imagination. Tom himself would agree to that.

He pulled up sharply again. He glanced down at the book with a sudden distaste for research. It might have been something along the lines of 'a little knowledge is a dangerous thing'. He'd certainly learned the meaning of that adage this weekend. He felt restless and, even though he hadn't yet taken a single note, he got up, closed the book carefully, and put it back on the shelf.

With one last almost apologetic nod to Tom's graven image, he stepped out through the door, locked it carefully, and departed.

00000

As the afternoon dragged on, the thought of dinner on the patio seemed increasingly impossible. Maybe it wasn't dinner so much as returning inside to the gatehouse afterwards. Even though he was technically done for the day, he stopped off at a payphone on the way back to the car.

Hardcastle picked up on the first ring as if he'd been waiting for a call. At the sound of McCormick's voice, though, he sounded startled.

"_Where you at_?"

"School," Mark said, matter-of-factly. He'd already worked through his excuse and launched it with only a moment's hesitation. "I forgot I had some other work to do. I don't think you should hold dinner for me."

He thought the judge's tone was mostly exasperation, with a hint of relief to go with it. There wasn't much argument, at any rate, just a routine admonition, which Mark barely heard, and a question—when would he be home?

He thought about that one. 'When the coast is clear' came floating by as a suggestion, but he thought he didn't want to explain that one, so he settled for, "Not too late. Probably before ten. The library closes then, anyway." That wouldn't get him out of a visit with the gatehouse's previous tenant, but he thought he could still handle one Hardcastle a night.

"_Okay_," the judge said grudgingly. "_See you then_." There was an implication that he was supposed to check in when he got home.

He heard himself replying "Yeah," but it was only a social form, not a binding contract. The good-byes were equally routine, but after he'd hung up, Mark felt himself slump with fatigue. He wondered when lying had become such hard work. He thought maybe it was because he'd missed lunch, in fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, not that he was much in the mood for it even now.

Coffee, though. He thought coffee would help, or maybe a beer, though he figured even just one of those, in his current state, would bring him down like a house of cards. Coffee it was, at the student union, where they made it hot and black and to the point.

While he drank it, and considered his options, it occurred to him that it would probably help to talk to someone—maybe someone who wasn't a figment of his imagination. Frank was a little too close to the situation, he decided, and Hardcastle, worse still, _was_ the situation.

He framed his questions and considered calling ahead, though the guy in question didn't seem to have all that much of a social life. He drove slowly, planning to arrive at St. Medard's well after the dinner hour. The church was unlit, as made sense for a Tuesday evening.

He stepped next door, to the rectory, and touched the doorbell almost reluctantly. Father Atia had a way of getting at the truth. There'd be no half-baked lies and weaseling excuses.

A small, elderly woman answered the door and gave him a quizzical narrow expression as a greeting. Father Atia was in, though, and when she went to check, he was free. She looked as though she disapproved of his availability. Mark didn't mind; he was accustomed to being disapproved of.

He slipped past her and back in the direction she'd pointed. There was a door open on the left side of the hallway. It was a book-lined study with a small desk and a typewriter.

"Homiletics has never been my strong suit," the dark-haired man behind the desk said. "You may have saved me from a mixed metaphor."

"Are those venial sins?"

"Cardinal," Atia said, cranking the paper up off the roller. He glanced at it in disgust and then dropped it into the wastebasket, "at least this one was."

Mark managed a smile, though it felt a bit stiff. It stiffened further when Atia's gaze fell on him. He thought he ought to visit the man more often, so that these rarer events would lose their air of catastrophe.

He was being waved into a chair. He caught the signal and sat, clumsily. Now that he was here, he wasn't sure where to begin—how much Atia _knew_. After all, his father, Joe Cadillac, had been at least peripherally aware of Tom's fate, though he'd gotten the story twisted around. But that, he realized, wasn't the point at all.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" he asked suddenly.

Atia's expression barely budged at this non-sequitar. He might have gone a bit more thoughtful. There was no immediate answer, but when he finally did speak, there was no hesitation.

"I believe in the permanence of the soul—in spirits, if you will. I believe they transcend our mortal beings. I believe in eternal life."

"Okay, yeah," Mark nodded. "That's the big picture. But, what I mean is, do you think that after people die, they can hang around and . . . and . . ."

"Make pests of themselves?" Atia said with a gentle smile. "Well, I should hope we'd have better things to do in the afterlife."

"But if they exist, then they might, if they had a good enough reason."

"It's also possible that the needs of the living to continue a close relationship with those who've gone ahead might—"

"It's not even someone I've ever _met_," Mark said plaintively. "But I think he's got unfinished business, and maybe he wants me to finish it for him."

"What sort of business?" Atia said quietly. "I don't believe the dead have any desire for vengeance."

"Not that," Mark said hastily. "No. More like proof." He looked up suddenly, his brow furrowed. "What about suicide? That's a sin, isn't it?"

"Well," Atia looked vastly more troubled at this than he had at the mention of ghosts, "we can't know the thoughts of anyone at the moment of their death—only God does, and there are states of mind, _illnesses_ that—"

"But to be murdered, and have it made to look like a suicide—to be falsely accused of a sin—"

Atia frowned and shook his head gently. "Mark, all this . . . _questing_ after justice, you and the judge, it's very worthy. All good men strive to do good, but all fall short of perfection."

"'Perfection', huh?" Mark sighed. "I'd settle for a decent night's sleep." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He lifted his gaze slowly. "So, you think it's all in my head. Dead people don't hang around and nag us about getting stuff settled. They don't mind if someone got away with murdering them."

Atia looked at him with some concern. "There's a sofa in the other room. I could have Mrs. Tessorini get you a pillow and a blanket. You really look like you ought to—"

"Nah," Mark said with a wave of his hand. "I'll be okay." He glanced down at his watch. "I've got to get home, maybe tell Tom he's not real."

He put a smile on the end of that, to assure the man sitting across the desk. Atia appeared to accept it with good grace and only a little doubt. Mark got up, caught his balance briefly on the arm of the chair, and nodded his good-bye.

"Thanks," he said, still smiling.

"Let me know how it turns out," Atia said with a gentle smile of his own, that and a hint of remaining concern.

00000

He arrived back at Gulls Way shortly before ten. The lights were on in the main house and Mark could see a shadowed figure in den window. He thought Hardcastle must've been lying in ambush and had heard the Coyote's distinctive timbre.

There would be no avoiding him, at least not without making a point of it. He sighed and clambered out of the seat, then turned toward the front door.

Not much to his surprise, the front door opened inward even before he got up on the porch. He couldn't make out the man's expression with Hardcastle silhouetted against the backlight from the hallway, but when the judge stepped aside, the summons was obvious.

"I made some phone calls today," Hardcastle said, as Mark edged by him.

Mark squinted, and stepped down into the den, making his way to a chair. Hardcastle moved around to the other side of his desk. Obviously he hadn't been kicking back and enjoying a movie. Tom's file was lying there open.

"Anything new?" Mark asked. He'd had a brief notion of trying to explain Father Atia's theory of acceptable imperfection, but he wasn't sure he could do it justice in his current state.

"Not much," the judge admitted, sitting down as if it had been a long day. "I did talk to someone with access to Tom's Marine Corps records. We were able to reconstruct the chain of command—November, 1972. Looks like there were a couple of possibles for the captain he says he talked to. Most likely one is a guy named Brown.

Mark felt things tunneling down for a moment, and then a weird notion that it might have been deja vu, rather than an actual memory. "Brown?" he said casually, trying to get his bearings and resist the urge to put his head down between his knees.

"Yeah," the judge nodded. He'd probably be the one, only I hope not, since he died in a car crash about three years ago." There was a pause, or at least Mark thought there was. He'd lost track of time for a moment but through the slight rushing sound came Hardcastle's voice, a little insistent. "You _okay_?"

He nodded. The spots were clearing. He even managed to focus on the man across from him and reply, very steadily, he thought, "Another dead end." He stifled a laugh, hoping Hardcastle hadn't gotten the unintentional pun. He felt his shoulders slump a little as he added, "Doesn't make it hopeless, though."

The judge was still giving him an odd look. "I don't think they were keeping a lot of written records about this sort of thing in a combat zone. I musta listened to ten beefs a day when I was a captain and I almost always settled things right then and there. Pushing it along was a waste of time and energy."

Mark had better sense than to say that even the lack of a written record was no absolute obstacle to getting information from the dead. Instead he demurred mildly. "I know you never dealt with something like this with a pat on the shoulder and some advice to buck up."

"'This'? We don't even know what _this_ was," Hardcastle said, his air of determination slowly giving way to bitterness. He swiveled his chair half-way round, now gazing out the window, in the general direction of the gatehouse. "I dunno, maybe it is hopeless." He sighed. "Tanckowski made bail."

Mark raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, well, they were never considering it as murder one—not with Chassell's prints alongside Tank's on the gun and witnesses saying they heard Chassell cussing and arguing."

"I met Tank on Saturday," Mark admitted. "I know it's a lot of deduction from one conversation, but I don't think he was ever the main player in this. Not now, not fifteen years ago."

Hardcastle nodded. But then he added, "Doesn't mean he wasn't an interested party, and he may be the last guy alive who could say what happened and why."

"'_Why'_, yeah, that'd be good, but are you okay with the 'what' part? The way I said I think it happened."

There was no hesitation before Hardcastle dragged his gaze back into the room and fixed it on Mark again, nodding solemnly. "Yeah," he said. "May still be just a guess but I think it's the right one."

"Good," Mark said heavily, pushing himself to his feet. The spots came back momentarily but he stayed on his feet—not that he was particularly eager to get back over to the gatehouse, but he'd decided there was no avoiding it. Even if Father Atia said the dead cared nothing about settling up, he figured he still owed Tom a little more of his time and patience.

"Get some sleep," Hardcastle said quietly, looking as if he had no intention of following his own advice.

Mark smiled thinly and nodded once, then trudged up the two steps and headed for the door.

00000

He'd unlocked his own door, then fastened it behind him carefully. He checked—no rattle would be possible tonight. He made it as far as the sofa, where he sat down heavily. He had half a notion to simply wait things out down there where he was. It was possible that you couldn't force the issue with a figment of your imagination, but he was willing to try.

The problem seemed to be that he wasn't always thinking his best on first awakening, and that his conversations with Tom hadn't really gotten past the overture. It might be that if he could settle things, the problem would simply vanish.

He sat back on the sofa, found he was breathing a little hard, then finally lifted his legs up, stretched out a little, and tried to make himself comfortable. He hadn't planned on closing his eyes, but he thought he must've—surely no longer than a slow blink, but, of course, that would be the moment Tom chose for his arrival.

"Three nights in a row is definitely a trend," Mark said.

Tom shrugged.

"But then, I suppose you don't have anywhere else to be . . . hey, you know you have a nice room over at the library?"

Tom gave him an odd look. "The _library?_ Must've been my mom's idea." He chuckled. "Now, if they'd named a curve for me up on Mulholland . . ."

"It's _nice_. They've got one of the chairs over there and everything."

"You're trying to get rid of me, huh?" Tom said. There was a hint of the sad truth behind what was probably supposed to be a humorous comment.

"Nah," Mark shook his head once. "I said I'd share—I'll share." He paused, hesitant, and then said, "You don't hate _me_, do you?"

"What for?" Tom asked, looking honestly baffled.

"For . . . um, having all of this." Mark gestured vaguely. "I think if you were still here, he never would've wasted a second glance on me."

"I might've been," Tom said pensively, almost to himself. "Still here, I mean. They let me move out here because . . . well, because I was going crazy in there. You know what he's like sometimes."

Mark smiled. "Yeah, a little."

"Well, picture another guy like that—"

"I thought you said you weren't like him?"

Tom smiled. "Oh, yeah, I was a saint. Never a moment's trouble. Very well mannered." The smile had become a grin. The grin slowly faded. "I don't think I was the same when I got back. It's hard to need other people that much. To not be able to do for yourself, ya know?" He looked down at himself. His expression was back to a smile. "This is better."

Mark was glad Tom couldn't see the right side of his head. He shivered involuntarily and then covered that with a quick, questioning gesture. "You think you're better off dead?"

Tom looked startled by that, as if he hadn't been thinking of himself that way, or, Mark thought, _you_ are not thinking of him that way.

But the younger man recovered his composure quickly enough. "Probably lucky it happened the way it did. Everyone better off."

"Not your father. No. You can't believe that."

"You know nothing about it," Tom said sadly.

"I know all about despair. And being abandoned."

Tom's defiant expression held of a moment, then collapsed into something resembling resignation. "Okay, but like you said, it wasn't my fault, and he knows that now. And what's done is done, so we might as well make the best of it."

"I don't think he sees it that way. He wants more answers. He wants it down in black and white. He wants it filed away somewhere, the truth."

Tom smiled again sadly. "You know him pretty well."

Mark only half-heard that; he was thinking about something else. "But you," he said quietly, "what do _you_ want?"

There was silence. A figment couldn't really provide a person with answers they didn't already have. After a moment Mark thought he'd get nothing at all from the younger man.

But then, just as suddenly as the silence had begun—"To be remembered."

Mark saw it, the absolute truth. Footprints in the sand. "You've got a room," he said weakly, "over at the library."

"I'll bet they keep the door locked," Tom said with some chagrin.

Mark thought about lying, but decided he was tired of that, besides, lying to yourself is always a bad idea. Gently couched truths might be slightly better.

"There's valuable stuff in there."

"_Books_." Tom smiled. "I wasn't a kid who was too keen on reading."

"_Old_ books," Mark admitted, "and they don't get used very much."

"Oh," Tom shook his head, half grinning, "kick me when I'm down."

"He grieved for you," Mark said abruptly. "I only got here ten years later, but I could still tell."

"I figured that." Tom looked around slowly, as if he were bidding the place farewell.

"You could come back," Mark said gently. "Anytime, really. The door's open."

"No it isn't," Tom said pointedly.

"Well, it is in a metaphorical sense. I just didn't want to listen to that damn rattle again. I really need some sleep," he added wistfully.

"Okay," Tom smiled. "Sometime, maybe. I'll try not to make a habit of it."

Mark wondered about that, seeing as the younger Hardcastle wasn't getting up to leave yet, or vaporize, or whatever figments do to exit a scene. It gradually dawned on him that he hadn't yet witnessed Tom coming or going. He simply _was_. He supposed that was how it would have to be this time, too; he'd have to make the first move, though he'd rather have just sat there on the sofa.

He thought he'd better get up, maybe eat something—no more coffee though. He was tying to remember the last time he'd had an appetite, aside from the dull intermittent gnawing that had taken its place. He put his feet down, and levered himself up of the cushions. The head rush was back, and now Tom appeared in a scintillation of white and purple, through which concern could be seen.

"Maybe you ought to sit down again."

"Nah," Mark muttered, took two steps, and felt the floor tilt at an odd angle, incompatible with staying upright. The fall wasn't a painful one, everything felt dull and muffled, including a pounding on the door, which was growing steadily louder despite the rushing in his ears. "Could you get that?" he mumbled, then realized that Tom had picked a lousy time to give up haunting him.

00000

"And blood all over the floor." He heard someone saying. The voice was Hardcastle's but the tone was unfamiliar, _shaken_. "I'd run over there without the keys. That was stupid. Had to bust the door down."

Whoever he was talking to listened patiently. Now another voice said, "Looks like a simple faint to start out with. Nothing wrong with his heart, as far as we can tell so far. He's down a quart. Blood sugar was low. Then the concussion on top of it."

"It looked like . . . at first, well . . ."

"Head lacs bleed a lot," the other voice said reassuringly. "Must've caught the corner of a table."

"I heard something, a noise. A _report_. Might've been somebody's car backfiring."

Mark dragged his eyes open, at least the left one. The other seemed glued shut, or maybe swollen. "Hey," he rasped, "what time is it?"

Hardcastle was standing over to his left, now with a look of relief rapidly replacing his initial frown of concern. The place was well lit and vaguely familiar. An ER, though he couldn't quite recall which one. The whole thing was a bit blurry around the edges and there was a throbbing headache to go with it. Mark had closed his eyes again before he heard someone say, "Almost midnight."

"Can I go home?" he murmured.

"Brain damage," Hardcastle said with a hint of asperity. "But some of it's chronic."

"I tripped," he said quietly. Hardcastle was being loud enough for the two of them.

"You were talking to yourself when I got there."

"If you were there," Mark reasoned, slowly and carefully, "then I wasn't talking to myself."

He heard someone else say, "This liter needs to run in, and that'll give us another hour to observe you. Then we'll see about you going home."

"Good," Mark said.

"That was a _maybe_," the judge shot back.

Whoever else had been there was apparently satisfied with how things were progressing. McCormick heard footsteps departing, a door opened and closed, then Hardcastle, edging a chair closer and sitting down. Mark kept his eyes defiantly closed through all of that. Eventually, though, the silence got to him. He peeked again.

"Talking to someone," Hardcastle repeated, now that Mark wasn't able to evade his stern look.

"Myself, I think," Mark replied, trying to sound rational and in complete possession of his faculties. "How long were you hanging around out there? Backfire, huh?" Though, in truth, he thought that would have been the last excuse the judge would have resorted to, so it was probably true.

"I came out to see you. You didn't look so hot when you left. I got worried. I heard you talking—"

"Just me?" Mark asked, too curious to be cautious.

Hardcastle considered that for a moment with an odd look on his face. "Yeah," he finally said, "just your voice. I couldn't make out the words. But before I got to the door, I heard that noise."

"A backfire." Mark tried for a nod but stopped suddenly. It hurt. "The echo, it's confusing. It can sound like the real thing.

"Must've been it. I was thinking about Tanckowski, that maybe he thought you still had the journal."

"Did you have a gun?"

Hardcastle looked puzzled. "'Course not. I was wondering if you were coming down with the flu or something. The part about Tank came after I heard the shot—"

"Backfire."

"Whatever." Hardcastle shook his head in exasperation. "Who were you talking to?"

"Myself," Mark reiterated, "like you said."

Hardcastle sat back in his seat, still eyeing him sternly. This time, Mark didn't even try to evade it. He wasn't someone who believed in ghosts.

00000

It was three in the morning before they pulled into the drive at Gulls Way again.

"Door needs to be fixed," Hardcastle indicated the gatehouse with a sideward duck of his chin, thus doing an end run around all objections Mark might have dredged up to avoid the twenty-four hours of close supervision that had been recommended in the discharge instructions.

Mark preceded him dutifully into the main house; it wasn't like he didn't know the drill. He headed directly for the stairs. It was dutiful verging on avoidance, even though the older man had diplomatically steered away from any further mention of Mark's behavior immediately preceding his accident.

He was right behind him on the stairs, though, and all he way to the door of the guest bedroom that was nearest to the master suite. Hardcastle was still in the doorway, and it looked like he intended to stay there until McCormick was safely horizontal.

"I feel better," Mark said firmly. It was a fairly transparent lie. "The IV helped some." That part was true, or he wouldn't be standing.

All this brave talk got him a single 'hmmph' from Hardcastle, not even deigning to register his opinion in words.

Mark sat down on the edge of the bed, took a few deep breaths, and waited for the waves to settle down. Then he said it. One word.

"Tom."

He thought maybe the judge was starting to regret the whole close supervision thing. He was still in the doorway, but somehow at more of an emotional remove, his eyes slightly averted.

Mark didn't give him time to physically withdraw before he spoke again. "What did he like to do best when he was a kid?"

The judge seemed almost surprised by the benignity of the question.

"For fun, I mean."

"Besides practical jokes?" Hardcastle said.

"Oh, no, don't tell me he took after his Uncle Gerald."

"Not that bad," the judge assured him. "No one could be _that_ irresponsible." He shook his head slowly, but it was mostly mock horror—a smile had crept back on his face. "Hoops, of course. He liked them. But I think Frank corrupted him—his favorite was baseball. Outfielder, he could go back like you wouldn't believe." Hardcastle seemed to settle on the memory. It was something with clear blue skies in a summer that would never end.

Mark almost hated to intrude, but it was there, in his head, almost as soon as he'd heard the words. It was as if someone had spoken it aloud to him.

"A baseball field, then. That's what it should be. Can't have too many of them. He lifted his hand, the fingers held in a curve, outlining the sign as he spoke the words: "'Hardcastle Field.' It has a nice ring to it."

The judge was staring at him as though he might need another trip back to the hospital.

Mark shrugged gently, without moving his head much. "Not that a room in the library isn't nice, but, honestly, can you picture him there?"

"It was Nancy's idea. I had hoped . . . had hoped someday he'd settle down and want to go to college, maybe even the law. He was a smart kid."

Mark felt his breath go out of him. It took a moment to recover it and then he said, "Maybe he would have . . . or maybe he'd've bummed around in double A for a while. Who knows?"

Hardcastle nodded.

"And when it's finished," Mark picked up the story, as if he'd never left off, "you should have a dedication, a picnic, unveil a bench that has his name on it. Let them know how proud you were of him—how he'll never be forgotten. Hotdogs. A double header. Invite everyone." Mark paused and then said, "How he died isn't as important as how he lived."

He stopped. He wasn't sure for a moment how it was going over. The nodding had stopped a whole back, but now, in the silence, the judge said quietly, "That sounds like a good idea. Can't have too many ball fields."

He was smiling. It was a slightly sad smile, but Mark though he'd only need a little time. It was still winter, but eventually winter would give way to spring.


	3. Chapter 3

Part III--Closure

**Part III--Closure**

As simple as the idea had sounded—a baseball field in Tom Hardcastle's name and memory—there were numerous details, large and small, that had to be dealt with. Mark leant a hand on his days off—mostly scouting locations—but he had a notion, deep and only vaguely defined, that this was fundamentally the judge's project. He mostly left him to it.

Over dinners, he'd listened to the progress reports and the griping—everything from a deaf, dumb, and blind zoning commission, to the stubbornness of neighbors who somehow thought little leaguers would be capable of Herculean feats.

"Four hundred feet to the nearest picture window." Hardcastle shook his head. "Who do they think's gonna be in the line-up, Babe Ruth?"

"Rowdy kids swilling Gatorade and spitting on their lawns." Mark shrugged. "They've all seen _The Bad News Bears_."

Hardcastle stared at him for a moment and then said, "It's not gonna be like _that_. Besides, it was your idea."

Mark ducked his head and suddenly got very focused on his mashed potatoes and meatloaf. He'd been inclined to think of it as _Tom's_ idea—and was half-worried that he was going to blurt out something to that effect on some occasion when he wasn't quite focused enough.

It wasn't that he believed in ghosts, but he thought his lack of belief had gotten a whole lot easier since Tom had given up his nocturnal residency at the gatehouse. There had been no further visits since Mark had proposed the baseball project. He hoped that meant approval, but he was sure it mean _something_.

This time he merely said 'mm-hm' and shoveled another forkful in.

"But, anyway, we got a date for the final hearing with the commission, and I went around and talked to everybody, even that Mrs. Glastitch—she's the one with the picture window. I told her if one of our baseballs came through it, I'd buy it off her for five hundred dollars and send it to the people in charge of the Guinness Book of World Records.

"I'm sure you were very reassuring."

"Hell yes. And she said if I put that in writing she'd stop calling the city council every day. 'Course we still have the EPA study to get through."

"You haven't got any little fish up there, have you?" Mark said worriedly.

"Not a one. Not much of anything. You saw it—weeds, mostly. Have to pipe in some water for a drinking fountain and all that"

Mark frowned. "I thought this was going to be simple. A backhoe, a grader and a couple of sand bags to mark the bases,"

"And you halfway through law school." Hardcastle eased back in his chair and shook his head. "You ought to know by now that nothing is that easy."

"But it's gonna happen?" Mark heard a little more concern creep into his voice. He pushed down the odd notion of disappointing Tom. "I mean, eventually."

"It will," Hardcastle said, "one way or another," and it was obvious from his smile that he intended to enjoy every minute of the tussle.

00000

Tom apparently wasn't worried either. Or maybe he was off haunting the recalcitrant Mrs. Glastitch. Mark could only hope he was finally making himself useful. For himself, it was easy to loose track of things, what with another semester coming to a close, and exams looming on the horizon.

But no amount of looming could keep him at home on the night of the commission's hearing, even though he'd already heard Hardcastle's speech in all its many revisions to the point where he could have stepped in as the understudy without any notes whatsoever. He ignored the idea that he would have to be able to give a full report on the proceedings to the interested party who couldn't be present. He portrayed his intentions more in the line of moral support.

The judge accepted that, along with sartorial advice and a final tie straightening just outside the commission's chambers. He got through his speech without any flubs, and with Mark resisting the urge to mouth the words silently right along with him.

Frank had showed up, too, in an _amicus curie_ role to make some brief remarks on the benefits of sports facilities for the improvement of the community and the reduction of crime. Mark thought maybe it wasn't such a good idea for Mrs. Glastitch to be dwelling on the idea that ballparks were there to divert the criminal element off the streets but there was no questioning Harper's shining sincerity.

In the end, the opposition dwindled to a few people who were fairly apparent in their dislike for any change whatsoever. The commission took the proposal under advisement but it looked like it would be a shoo-in.

Hardcastle stayed behind to do a little convivial smoozing of the committee members. Mark slipped out the door as soon as gavel hit block, declaring the adjournment. Harper wasn't far behind him, and look pleased to be released from his public relations duties.

"Is this part of your penance?" Mark asked dryly, watching him loosen his tie.

Harper grinned and shrugged. "Might be, but anything for a good cause. What'd you get? Skimming the pool with a tea strainer?"

Mark looked down at the ground for a moment, then raised his head slowly. "Sentence never really got passed on that one."

"He said this was all your idea." Harper gestured with a wave of his hand toward the now emptying meeting room.

"Not exactly." Mark's smile was a little distant, and he left the reply at that, only adding, "I think Tom would've approved, though."

He'd left some reasonable doubt in there and Harper stepped in with a natural nod. "Oh, yeah. This'd be something he'd've liked." The lieutenant stood there a moment, hands in his pockets, looking pensive. "It's funny sometimes, when someone dies young like that. Years go by; they'll always be young. I'll always remember him fielding the long ones, way out there."

"The judge said he could go back like anything."

"That he could. He wasn't all that tall or fast, but he had a great sense of where he needed to be. Timing. It's all timing." Harper was smiling at the memory. "I coached him two years in pony league." The smile turned a little rueful. "That was before he discovered girls and cars."

"Oh, yeah," Mark laughed, "now there's a dangerous combination." He glanced back into the room; the judge had moved over to the representative from the park district and was deep in conference. "The 'Vette," McCormick said, "was his? I heard that once from somebody," he added causally.

Frank nodded.

Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. "I dunno—what was the thinking there?" He flashed a quick grin, suddenly feeling considerably older than Tom Hardcastle. "That was just asking for trouble."

Harper shrugged again. "It was his. He bought it with his own money. Did summer work—lawn stuff—there's a lot of lawns around here."

"A _'Vette?_"

"Well, it was already about five years old, and it'd been in an accident—never got repaired, wasn't even drivable. He had it hauled home. Spent all his money on it the next year, scrounged up the parts."

"You're kidding," Mark said quietly.

Frank shook his head. "It drove his folks crazy. It was all Milt used to talk about. Tom and that damn car. And that was _before_ he got it fixed up and running hot."

"I always assumed—"

"Nah," Harper moved a little further down the hallway, looking over his shoulder at the still-conferencing Hardcastle, "Tom's car from the bottom up. That's why it was a little tough to rein him in once it _was_ fixed. And there's Milt and Nancy hoping he'd settle down. Maybe get into a good college. _Apply_ himself," Harper said, in a tone that implied he was quoting.

"He would've," Mark replied, with the quiet certitude of personal experience. "He just ran out of time."

"Guess every kid has to cut loose a little along the way."

"Not all, but some," McCormick said with a grimace. "Lucky if they make it through all right—if they've got someone there to keep 'em on the straight and narrow."

"Milt tried."

Mark smiled. "Well, he doesn't exactly sound like Billy the Kid. He got a job, he bought a car. He liked auto shop better than English Lit. He red-lined a 'Vette once in a while."

"Sometimes it's a matter of expectations," Harper said quietly.

Mark thought that one over for a moment. "Yeah," he agreed. "I think it's easier sometimes when no one has any for you. Well, except maybe _low_ expectations." He grinned. "And I didn't even meet _those_ all the time."

Harper was giving him an impatient look.

"Okay," Mark said appeasingly, "I'm improving."

"No," Harper interjected, sounding as impatient as he looked, "not that. The part about the expectations. He had those, right from the start."

From Mark there was only baffled silence.

"You couldn't tell, huh?"

"Yeah, well," McCormick finally found his voice, "maybe he was expecting me to wind up back in the hoosegow—his term, not mine." He smiled.

"Nah, he said you were different. He knew."

"When?" Mark couldn't keep the curiosity off his face.

Frank looked up at the ceiling, as if he was trying to recall, put a pushpin in something that was more of a process than a moment. "Mighta been . . ." he frowned, then looked back down, less hesitant, "musta been right in that first couple a weeks. I remember him telling me about you stomping into Carlton's office confessing about breaking into the impound area to get that stuff of Joe Cadillac's. That must've been it."

"That?" Mark frowned, remembering how close he'd been to not doing that very thing.

"Yeah. That and a bunch of other stuff. That trip to Rio—you busting him out of jail. You giving that reward money to that old parolee of his—"

"He told you all that?" Mark felt himself flush slightly.

"Yeah, and with that 'I told ya so' tone of voice. It was obnoxious as hell," Harper said with a grin. "You were different and he knew it."

"Wish he'd told _me_ that." Mark smiled. It wasn't exactly chagrin, not even really regret. It was more like resigned acceptance.

"Nah," Harper shook his head. "He couldn't. I think he was worried that might break the spell."

Mark's eyebrow rose in question.

"You know," Frank said, "when everything's been going wrong for so long and things finally start to go right. That spell. Kinda surprising that he'd have even said it out loud to me, but I guess he just had to tell somebody."

McCormick thought a moment and then nodded. He understood that. He frowned. All the damn things that had gone wrong for both of them for so long. And then, dwelling on that for a moment longer, he came back around to the reason why they were here.

"Tom was a good kid," Mark said quietly.

There might have been something in his tone, his _certainty_. He was glad he'd bit back the part he'd been about to unthinkingly add—that he liked him—Harper was already giving him an odd look.

He set his expression in something firm and slightly more removed. "He would have turned out just fine. He already had."

"Yeah," Frank agreed.

He might have been on the verge of adding more, when they saw the judge finally giving the parks representative a hearty handshake and a slap on the shoulder. He was turning to go.

"It's a helluva shame, what happened," Frank muttered softly. "Whatever _did_ happen."

There was something in the tone of that last remark that caught Mark's attention, but then the judge was bearing down hard on them and smiling. There was no time left for any more questions.

"I think that went pretty well," Hardcastle said with obvious satisfaction, and then, at the other two men's nods, he added, "Whaddaya say we go have a beer? Celebrate and all—public speaking makes a man thirsty."

00000

It was only one round; Mark had an early morning to look forward to, and Harper had put in a full day at the office. The judge had let the conversation drift to general things, probably sensing that one more look at the plat map wasn't going to change anything.

It was only at the end, when they were getting up to leave, that Frank slid the comment in.

"That guy who shot John Chassell—"

Harper halted abruptly. The judge had paused partway up from his chair at the mention of the man who had most likely murdered his son. There was a scowl on Hardcastle's face that was not directed at Frank.

"Sorry," the lieutenant said. "Didn't mean to throw a wet towel on the occasion, just thought you'd wanna know."

Hardcastle straightened up slowly, squaring his shoulders. He finally gave Frank a conceding nod. "Yeah," he said wearily. "What about him?"

"The DA has decided not to press murder charges, but they've forwarded recommendations to the Bureau of Security and Investigative Services. He'd already had his concealed carry and firearms owner's permits revoked. They're asking the Bureau to yank his other registrations, too."

"So he's got to find another line of work," Mark retorted. "That's all, huh?"

"Not likely anyone would have hired him anyway," Hardcastle said grimly. "Not after he killed his boss."

"There's that," Harper drawled.

"Great," Mark said with surprising bitterness.

"I thought you said you didn't think he wasn't the guy in charge of all this?" Harper asked.

"Yeah, well," Mark shrugged, "Maybe not, but I think he sure as hell knew which end was up. That makes him at least an accessory after the fact, doesn't it?"

Harper nodded after a moment. "But ya see," he finally interjected, "if they take this to trial with a soft case, and he gets himself a good lawyer, he'll wriggle out of it, sure as hell, and then that's it." Frank added one more nod. "Once he's found not guilty, doesn't matter what further evidence we turn up."

"What about fifteen years ago; what about '_Nam_?"

"You know that's all softer still and it doesn't look like there's much hope of putting a case together that went cold over a decade ago."

Mark reached up to rub his temple, then shook his head. He glanced over at Hardcastle, who still looked grim and who'd been unusually quiet throughout the whole conversation.

"Judge," he said abruptly, then caught himself. This was crazy, to be suspicious of a person's silence. It might be nothing more than Hardcastle once again revisiting events which couldn't be changed.

But he blurted it out anyway. "You aren't thinking of stirring it all up, poking around Tanckowski's turf by yourself, are you?"

"Nah," Hardcastle said, with only a momentary hesitation. "I was leaving that to the cops and the DA's office. I haven't gone near the guy. If they don't think they have a case, then Frank's right. Better not to take it to trial, than to take it now and lose."

McCormick felt the same nagging suspicion, nibbling at the edges of his thoughts, though he was hardly in a position to accuse the man further, not after his own near-disastrous foray into solo investigations a month earlier.

"All right," he said, "Tanckowski walks. I hope at least it's weighing on his conscience." He sighed as he ambled toward the door.

00000

There'd been more silence on the way home, and—Mark couldn't help it—a slowly hardening belief that Hardcastle had more than one project on the burner. He'd still said nothing, held at bay by his own guilt. He'd pondered it, though, all the way back to his bed in the gatehouse and well into the restless night.

Now, laying there studying the ceiling overhead, he half-wished Tom would put in an appearance so that he could put the issue to him. He chuckled grimly. For an aspect of his subconscious, the younger Hardcastle was strangely unbiddable, either in going or coming.

By morning he'd come to some conclusions, none of which he was happy with. The first thing was a call to Frank, made from the gatehouse and at an hour that still found the lieutenant at home.

"He's been to see you about it, huh? Nothing you said last night was a surprise to him. He's been following it pretty closely."

"_Of course he has,"_ Frank said quietly. "_What did you expect_?"

"I didn't expect him to take this laying down, which is what he did last night."

"_That's just knowing when to pick your fights. Biding your time._"

"But the case is already cold; you guys said so yourself—"

"_And that means it won't get any colder,_" Frank said with aggravating calm. "_Something might still turn up, though._"

"How?" Mark asked suspiciously. "He's looking into it, huh? He lied to me last night. I knew it."

"_I don't think so._" It was that same soothing, matter-of-fact tone that Frank used on victims.

McCormick gritted his teeth and forced himself not to snap back.

"_Listen," _Harper finally said; he must have sensed the tension, "_he's asked me to run a couple of names. Nobody I recognized but none of them showed up in the system. When I asked him what was up, he said he was looking for some of Tom's old platoon, that's all. He made it sound pretty reasonable—that he was going to look some of them up and invite them to the dedication._"

"So he had to make sure they didn't have any priors? Come on, Frank. He's just going at this from another angle. How many names?"

"_Four or five."_

"Where's he getting them from? Tom didn't use many full names in his journal." Mark rubbed his temple. "Could he get that stuff from military records?"

"_Not very fast,_" Frank admitted. "_Maybe not at all. But he knows people. Tell you the truth, I didn't ask."_

"You were still doing penance, huh?"

Frank didn't answer for a moment. Then, abruptly, he said, "_Hey_, _I'll bet he kept it—or Nancy must've put it away. Sure—"_

"What?"

"_The visitor's book, from the funeral—the wake. You know. Everybody signs their name and address, so you can send the thank you notes. There were quite a few guys there in uniform._"

"From Tom's platoon, yeah, they were back. But their addresses would have still been local military bases. You haven't struck pay dirt for him yet, nothing recent? Then why the hell is he so calm?"

"_I don't know,"_ Frank said wearily. "_Maybe you should ask him._"

Mark said nothing.

"_You still doing penance too?" _Frank said wryly. "_Anyway, him looking up these guys, what harm can it do? He'll maybe get lucky, but if any of Tom's men had known anything, I think they would've told somebody back then. I remember some of 'em looked pretty shook up. They all said nice stuff about him."_

"It's not really Tom's guys that he's after," Mark said impatiently. "What he's looking for is for someone who knows what John Chassen was up to. It's a long shot, but he's worked longer."

"_Okay, so maybe, but like I said, what harm can it do? And he didn't lie to you,_" Frank pointed out. "_He's not going anywhere near Tanckowski."_

Mark couldn't deny that, at least not with any certainty, and he didn't think his own recent actions had put him in much of a position of moral authority. After he and Frank said their good byes, he put the receiver back and sat there for a moment. For now, at least, it'd probably be best to let Hardcastle think he was getting away with it.

_Probably._

He got up and headed over to the main house, in the spirit of unsuspecting routine. He found the judge in the kitchen, as if he were pursuing the same policy. It was a cold cereal morning, and the older man already had his to-do list out on the table next to his plate. McCormick glanced down at it as he passed by, heading for the shelf where the bowls were kept. It looked like an entirely innocent set of chores—mostly related to the project, but a couple of general estate matters.

"Busy day?" Mark asked casually.

He got a non-specific grunt which wasn't exactly a conversation opener. He put his bowl on the table, pulled the cereal box over towards his side, sat down, and poured.

"You thinking about a guest list yet?" he said calmly, as though he'd just pulled the notion out of nowhere. "I mean, for the dedication?"

Hardcastle looked up. His eyes might have narrowed a little. "No rush on that," he muttered. "Might kinda be like counting chickens before their hatched."

"Oh, I dunno." Mark shrugged. "You thought it went pretty well last night didn't ya?"

Hardcastle gave that one slow nod.

"And it might be some folks would be hard to reach, friends of his, guys he knew, all this time gone by."

The judge's eyes were definitely narrowed now.

"I could help with that," Mark added, not sounding quite so casual anymore.

"You've got exams coming up."

"Yeah, well," Mark shrugged again, "there's a limit to how much studying a guy can stand. I could use a change of pace. You got a list yet?"

Now one eye was narrow and the other eyebrow was up. "Yeah," the judge finally admitted, in a grudging tone. "Started putting something together a couple weeks ago."

"See? You've already counted up the chickens. No harm in figuring out where they live, huh?" Mark smiled blandly. "You got any leads yet?"

The eyebrow was down. There was a definite frown. "You were talking to Frank last night," the judge grumped. "Shoulda figured he'd rat."

"He didn't 'rat'—and it wasn't last night," Mark said, still maintaining an air of acceptance. "I mostly figured it out for myself."

"How?" Then he pulled up short and rephrased it. "What did you figure out?"

Mark sighed. This wasn't going to be one of those times where he could get the old donkey to assume there was nothing left worth hiding. "I just figured you'd do what I'd do."

"And what's that?" Hardcastle said suspiciously.

"Keep digging."

"And what if it's a dry well?" the judge muttered.

"Then move over a ways and start in again. How many of those guys had you run down so far?"

"Besides Captain Brown's family? Nothing there—no contacts." Hardcastle looked up at the ceiling as if he were toting up some numbers. "There were thirty-two names in the funeral register that had military titles, and another six or so that I think just left 'em off. About ten of those were such common names that I didn't think I'd have any luck at all, even figuring out which Sergeant Jones I was dealing with. Of the rest, I've actually located three, none from Tom's platoon.

He paused, took in a breath and let it out, heavily. "I got a little desperate."

It was Mark's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Well, yeah," Hardcastle grumped. "That's a lot of dry holes. I was starting to run out of places to dig."

"How desperate?"

"You mean besides leaning on Frank?"

"That's not desperate," Mark flashed a quick smile and shook his head. "That's business as usual."

"Okay, yeah, well maybe," Hardcastle conceded. "But when he drew a blank, I went out and hired a private investigator."

Mark's smile drifted down into a neutral expression. There was a fairly long silent pause before he said, "Huh?"

"Yeah, a P.I.—a guy named Kaplan, used to be a cop."

"Why didn't you just go over and see Rosie? I thought you had a free pass at the hall of records."

"Already tried that, too. Mighta worked if any of them had stayed in L.A. County, but it looked like mostly no such luck." The judge sighed. He looked weary, but by no means resigned.

Mark sat there for a moment, simply considering it all. The problem was that he understood it—the need to know, even if the end result was finding out things that would only make you unhappy. He'd been in the clutches of that demon himself in the past, and it had driven him to desperate actions. He could even argue, without too much stretch, that it was what had started off all of this—his damnable need to know.

"Look," he finally said, trying for a tone of compromise, "I get it—that you can't leave this alone, not if there's some chance that somebody somewhere knows what the hell happened—something that'll prove what happened to Tom and why. But if everything I said was true, if whatever happened was serious enough to get him killed, then it could be dangerous, even after all this time."

The judge's expression was set. It was pure mule. "It's not _that_ dangerous."

"Yeah," Mark muttered, "and like that'd stop you." He shook his head, then added, "Whaddaya think Tom'd say? Him already dead and you going out and getting yourself killed just to figure out why."

"Not gonna happen," Hardcastle muttered right back at him.

"How do you know?" Mark said in exasperation. "Tom dead, now Chassell dead. These are dangerous guys. Would Tom want you to risk dying over this?"

"He'd understand," the judge said grimly.

"_He_ might," Mark snapped back, "but I sure as hell won't."

"So," the judge's expression was steady but not accepting, "we let the dead bury the dead. We just pack it in and move on and never know why?"

Mark knew better than to think he'd won. This was just Hardcastle rearing up for another round. And here he was with only fifteen minutes before he had to head out the door to class, after which the judge would be alone, just him and his to-do list.

"No," he finally conceded with a sigh, "I'm just asking you to let me help."

"You've got exams coming up."

"And you and Frank both agreed that this was a cold case that wasn't getting any colder. What's another couple of weeks after fifteen years?"

There was a considering silence from Hardcastle's side of the table. Mark listened to it for a moment, then finally, and fairly patiently, said, "Tom wouldn't want you to walk into this without backup."

The judge grunted a 'hmpfh', and said, "When the hell did you become his spokesman?"

"I'm not," Mark sat back in sudden indignation, "but if that's all you can say then it means you know I'm right."

There were no further remarks from the man across the table, by which Mark concluded he might have finally scored a point.

"Okay," he said, trying to solidify his gains, "I'll be back by three. You can show me what you've got so far. I mean up until this morning. I don't want you heading out to get any more today. We got that straight?"

'We' nodded once and looked reluctant but resigned. Mark shoveled in a couple quick bites of cereal, grabbed his bowl, rinsed it at the sink, and then departed, feeling not quite as victorious as he would have liked.

00000

He thought about it on and off that day, in class and between. He even considered calling home at one point, but decided that an unanswered phone would prove nothing—the judge did still have other errands to see to. But if Hardcastle _was_ there to pick up the receiver, the man would most likely have something pointed to say about Mark's obvious lack of faith—a lose-lose situation.

He compromised with his nerves by cutting the day short, departing for the estate as soon as his last class over, a little after one-thirty. He couldn't explain his twitchiness except as the byproduct of long association with a man who believed that the proper approach to most problems was full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes.

It didn't surprise him to all was quiet back at the estate, the truck missing from its usual spot. He reminded himself of the other errands and staunchly resisted the urge to call Frank again. He didn't think he'd get that much sympathy from that quarter anyway.

He headed directly for the gatehouse, briefcase in hand and feeling slightly guilty for all his suspicions. Chances were, the judge was merely pricing bleachers or doing some other equally innocent task. He had himself almost convinced of that as he slipped the key in the lock and opened his door.

The thought carried him in, and the effort at believing it might have distracted him—it was a long second in the relative dimness, before he registered the shadowy shape sitting in the chair and even then his first notion was _Tom's back_.

Not Tom, though, he realized a half second later, already too far inside to retreat, not with a gun pointed at him, motioning him further in.

"Tank?" he asked quietly. It wasn't as if he had much doubt. His eyes were rapidly adjusting and the face was now visible.

The man looked deeply angry, but all he said was, "Sit down."

Mark cast one quick look over his shoulder at the closed door. He moved toward the other chair reluctantly but carefully. His vision was improving by the second and he could now make out something in Tanckowski's other hand, resting on his knee. It looked like Tom's journal.

He sat, slowly. He kept his mouth shut, not yet sure what he was up against, besides an angry man with a gun. The tense silence stretched out to the point where he thought the next sound he'd hear would be the first shot. At this range it would only take one.

In a moment of unwarranted levity he said, "Hardcastle won't fall for it twice."

He knew immediately it had been a mistake. The muscles in Tanckowski's jaw were knotted, his finger tense on the trigger. It might have been the effort of a man trying to restrain himself.

"This," Tank finally spat, holding out the book, "is a pile of crap." He tossed it down. It slid to a stop on the coffee table. "There's not a damn thing in it," the man added bitterly.

Mark risked the smallest of shrugs. "It was all I had to work with. It was all he left behind."

"There's nothing else?"

McCormick realized he'd made a tactical error; not that lying would have helped much at this point. He didn't think Tanckowski would have believed him either way. But now, the reaction surprised him. The other man slumped back in his seat, his face half-twisted in what looked like a snarl. The sound that came out of him was a harsh laugh—rising quickly to something resembling hysteria.

It took a moment for Tanckowski to catch his breath; though it all his aim had never been compromised. Mark wasn't sure what it all meant, but it didn't seem good.

"I heard you're off the hook," Mark said quietly, trying to inject a note of sanity into the proceedings. "No indictments were returned on you."

Tank straightened up some, then went motionless. Mark wondered idly how he could hold the gun that steady. A skill acquired with practice, no doubt.

"That's the damn stupidity of it," the man finally said, the words coming out as a modulated growl. "The one thing I _did_, and they give me a pass."

Mark frowned; it always vaguely puzzled him why people wanted to chat before killing someone, not that he was going to object. He tried for a more neutral expression. He groped for a handle on the conversation. He settled for a fairly unchallenging, "It was self-defense, though, wasn't it?"

That was the first time he saw the gun hand waver slightly. He dragged his gaze back up to Tanckowski's face. It was far more rigid than his hand. "I shot him," he said. "That's what matters."

That was something McCormick actually understood, and since it was a conversation, he felt entitled to ask another question. It might get him killed, but that seemed the eventual outcome at any rate. He tried for a diplomatic tone.

"But since you were off the hook, why the hell did you come here? It's been weeks. You still thought I was going to blackmail you with it? You were in the clear. We'd put it down."

"You, maybe. _Him_, never." Tanckowski shook his head. "I saw him that day—the day we came here, and at the funeral, too. He'd a never put it down, never let go of it. I heard he was still dogging it—hired a P.I. and everything."

"Oh, _that_," Mark let a little surprise into his reply, then slid back into nonchalance, "he was just looking up some of the guys from Tom's platoon—he wanted to send 'em invitations." He paused at Tank's confused expression. He layered on a little more casual sincerity as he elaborated. "The dedication—a baseball field."

Tanckowski didn't look convinced, but he still hadn't pulled the trigger. Mark took that as unspoken encouragement to keep talking.

"You know he read the whole thing." Mark gestured with his chin toward the journal. "He knows there's nothing useful in it, either. Does he seem like the kind of guy who would sit on it if he had something?"

Tank gave a half shrug.

No," Mark said firmly, "he's not. Like I said, you're in the clear."

For one brief moment he thought he'd made the sale, then something in Tanckowski's eyes hardened and he uttered a sharp, hard grunt.

"The clear, huh?" The head shaking continued, now slower. "Never that. It'll never be that." He brought his chin up sharply, with a new, more accusing set to his face. "It's your fault."

Mark was pretty sure that was true; he really didn't need Tank pointing it out again but the man was on a role now.

"You had to drag it all back up again. It was dead and buried."

"You mean Tom dead and buried," Mark muttered.

Tank froze again, lips thin. He gestured sharply with the gun, an effective demand for silence. He started up again, slow and tense. "None of it was my fault."

"It wasn't, huh?"

"No," Tank said firmly.

"What about the first part; what about 'Nam?"

"'Specially not 'Nam," the man said. His voice was low but starting to sound pressured again. "I was a staff sergeant, he was a lieutenant. And you don't get it." Tanckowski's eyes had narrowed. "It was war."

"So explain it to me," Mark said, keeping it very matter-of-fact.

Tank, eyes still narrow, looked wary, but after a moment, one corner of his mouth twitched, as though there had been some irresistible challenge in the invitation.

"You think he said 'jump' and I said 'how high?'" The lift of the man's lip had become a strange, crooked smile. "Nah, it wasn't like that. He was magic, you know. And when you're out there in the jungle, you need some luck like that. He was that good."

There was a pause, as if the man might leave it there, with just that much. Mark finally risked a gentle prod. "Tom liked him, too," he said, unchallengingly.

"The hell he did. He woulda made a stink, the little shit."

"About what?"

"She was VC; he was only trying to make her talk," Tank hissed. "He didn't want her dead, he wanted her to _talk_." He sat back, breathing hard. "Then Hardcastle walks in on top of everything else—he wasn't even s'pose to be there—asking 'what's wrong'—it's a fucking war, for chrissake. 'What the hell's wrong?'" He choked out the angry mimic of concern and shook his head fiercely. "Chassell told him it'd been an accident. That I'd gotten carried away—that's how he said it, like the knife had slipped, that all. And me. He said it'd been me. Hardcastle, he didn't say much, but he didn't look like he was buying any of it.

"Chassell said there'd be trouble. He said the kid'd make a stink. Then a couple days later Hardcastle's dead, or that's what we thought. He looked dead when they loaded him on the chopper."

"Dead how?" Mark said quietly, a mere point of information.

Tanckowski's eyes shifted sideward, but only momentarily. "A grenade. It happened. It wasn't me," he added, as though that had happened, too, from time to time.

"Chassell?" Mark asked.

"Dunno." A shrug followed. "Can't say we weren't glad to see him go."

Mark kept his expression very flat, at least he thought he had. Tank grimaced and said, "It was war," but even he seemed uncomfortable with it.

McCormick let that one rest. He thought he'd taken it as far as it would go. A moment of silence passed before he prodded again. "Must've been a shock, he said softly, "finding out he wasn't."

Tank grunted and then, "Yeah. Chassell wasn't worried. Said he'd be a vegetable. He wrote to Tom's old man. That's what he heard back. Tom couldn't talk even."

"But he must not've been too sure."

Tank frowned again, looking half lost in the memory. "He didn't act worried. But as soon as we got back, he said he was going to go pay him a visit."

"That's all, just a visit?"

"He didn't bring a gun," Tank said staunchly. "That was Tom's gun; that's what they said."

The sudden insistence stuck out like a red flag. Mark pondered it for only a split second.

"You so sure? Maybe Chassell had some of Tom's things—maybe he kept stuff back, when the rest was shipped home, maybe he had it on him when he came here." It made perfect sense—even the luckiest guy in the world couldn't rely entirely on improvisation.

Tanckowski was entirely caught up in the story now. He gave Mark a knowing half-smile. "Mighta been; the lieutenant was always prepared."

"Did you know what he was going to do?" Mark asked.

"No," Tank said sharply. Somehow the rest had become understood, sacrificed to the position that it had been Chassell's doing alone.

Mark wasn't quite buying it, and his silence probably underlined that. He was also vaguely aware that they'd run out of things to talk about. The gun was still pointing in his direction and Tanckowski looked even more tense and determined.

There was only one thing left to try, though he'd avoided provocation up till this point. Mark stared at him—the man's face, not his gun hand.

"Maybe you didn't know, not beforehand. Just the lieutenant being quirky, I guess, asking you to drop him off and not come in right away," he said coolly, letting the disbelief drip off the words. "But you sure as hell must've suspected it afterwards. Chassell killed Tom and you never said a word. You went to the man's funeral." Mark frowned, another sudden certainty occurred to him. "You helped carried his coffin." The other man's pallor was evidence enough. Mark stared at him in growing disbelief.

"You helped bury him." The other meaning of the words was sharp and hard—a diamond of truth.

The gun was trembling now, just slightly, but as the harbinger of a façade crumbling away. Tanckowski's face, briefly a mask, now bore the clear evidence of self-loathing.

Mark held his breath for a moment, then shoved the knife home. "Was that war, too?" He had a brief moment of ironic thought as he watched the man grow even more taut—he wondered if after Tank killed him he'd come back to haunt the next occupant of the gatehouse.

And then he saw the barrel being raised—_of course, a head shot_—but, no, past there, not _his_ head, not today. He heard his heart pounding, as though it had stopped for a moment or two just prior to that, and still the hand with the gun swung up. He shouted "_No_" but the word was lost in the sound of it firing.

Something damp on his face, a pounding on the door barely audible over the ringing in his ears, and a feeling that a few more moments had passed. Tanckowski was on the floor, crumpled, with the gun thrown from his hand and somewhere back behind the chair he'd been sitting in. Mark registered all this, along with the ever louder pounding and his name being shouted. Hardcastle would have the door busted down if he didn't open it.

"I'm okay," he shouted, "gimme a sec." He wasn't sure he'd been heard over the racket, but he stood up, and made it over there, fumbling with the knob and almost getting flattened by the door when he finally got it open.

"I'm okay," he said again.

"A backfire?" Hardcastle said, face flushed from exertion or embarrassment. But the flush faded to something near pallor as Mark stepped forward, out into the light. At the man's look of growing horror, McCormick glanced down at himself. Most of the specks were small, but there was a fleck of something semi-solid on his right shirtsleeve. He reached up and touched his face, his fingers came away damp. He didn't have to look at them to know they were red.

"Not mine," he said. "Tanckowski's." He resisted as the judge tried to guide him back into the gatehouse. He felt as if his mind were clearing some—and nearly the first cogent thought was that the judge oughtn't go in there either. He reached out and caught hold of the arm that was offering him support. "Shot _himself_," he said with quiet insistence. "He's dead."

That was all it took. The judge froze, blinking once and swallowing. He cast a brief look into the dim room. Mark was grateful that the man had chosen the further chair.

"You okay?" Hardcastle said quietly.

"Okay. Fine. Not a scratch." Mark nudged him back out through the doorway, into the nearly blinding light.

"A crime scene." Hardcastle let himself be nudged. "We shouldn't go in there."

"Yeah," Mark nodded, "we should call from the house."

00000

Summer came, and with it the long awaited approvals from all the relevant authorities, after which, the actual grading, and pipe laying, and bleacher installation were mere anticlimax. Of course the judge had done some leaning—June fourth, he'd insisted. That would be the dedication day. The deed would be handed over to the park admistration. There'd be a game—Frank's pony league team against his least rusty colleagues from the district. The smart money was on the kids.

Hot dogs and watermelon would be served out. The whole neighborhood, even Mrs. Glastich, would be invited. They'd even finally located a few guys from Tom's old platoon.

The day dawned clear and warm and Hardcastle, for all his impatience leading up to it, seemed pensive that morning. Mark left him alone in the den, to dwell on what he hoped were mostly good memories, while he loaded up the truck with the picnic supplies.

But even the judge couldn't stay pensive in the face of the turnout. Mark had a slight twinge of hotdog inadequacy as they pulled up, though he figured he could remedy that with another run to the store during the seventh inning stretch.

There was nothing somber about the ceremony, only a solemn moment of silent memory, some brief but warm speeches, and a general cheer as the bench was unveiled. It was off in the shade of a copse of young trees that had been planted, near the edge of the outfield, on a straight line that extended from home plate to Mrs. Glastiche's front window.

And then Hardcastle smiled—the first real smile Mark had seen from him all that morning—and said, "Play ball."

00000

The kids won, and if money changed hands over in the crowd from the police department, it did so surreptitiously. Claudia Harper had taken charge of the grills, and the food tables were all up and running with almost magical efficiency. Mark found himself with a hotdog in one hand, a lemonade in the other, and nothing left to do. After several weeks of being run ragged, the feeling was slightly disorienting.

He wandered free from the denser part of the crowd, taking in all in—the blankets spread on the ground, the kids climbing on the now empty bleachers. He smiled. It was a strange thing to see your imaginings come to life. His smile faded slightly. He scanned the crowd again, then turned to take in the wider view. He didn't spot him right away, and when he did, it was over by the trees, sitting on the bench.

He hesitated a moment. The man was by himself . . . or maybe not. It might be that he wasn't really alone, and didn't want any other company. On the other hand, he didn't have a hotdog yet.

That settled it. Mark finished his own in a couple of quick bites, then returned to the tables to load up a plate—hot dog and all the accoutrements. He grabbed a beer from the cooler and tucked it under his other arm then headed over to the trees.

On closer inspection, Hardcastle looked as though he'd returned to pensive and Mark began to regret his intrusion, but it was too late now to retreat. The man on the bench had taken note of him. A nod, a half smile.

"I thought I'd better grab you some. Frank's kids are like a pack of wolves."

The smile stayed in place, maybe a hint of broadening. "They worked up an appetite beating the socks off those cops."

Mark nodded. He handed over the plate and the beer. He took another swig from his own lemonade. "Nice," he said, in a quiet and general sort of way.

"Yeah," the judge said, performing the same appreciative sweep of the eyes that Mark had done a short while earlier, but when he did it, it was easy to imagine an almost searching quality to his gaze.

The silence stretched out. Mark took another slow sip. Hardcastle hadn't started eating yet. He picked up the hotdog and gestured with it distractedly.

"I used to see him. I'd look and I'd see him, out of the corner of my eye. It happened a lot, especially right after he was gone." The judge sighed. He took a bite. He chewed without appearing to give it much attention. He swallowed. He sat back against the bench and finally shook his head. "I dunno," he said. "It doesn't happen anymore." He frowned. "I'm not even sure what he would look like anymore."

"Well, that depends," Mark said philosophically, "on whether he was still nineteen, or if he's thirty-four."

"Thirty-five," Hardcastle interrupted. Then he smiled and said, "today's his birthday."

Mark grimaced. "Middle-age," he said. "It starts at thirty-five."

"You're kidding," Hardcastle lifted an eyebrow. "You mean you're going to be middle-aged next year?"

Mark stared down at him for a moment then said, "Hell no. Middle age is always one year older than where you're at. Next year, middle age will become thirty-six."

"Well," the judge sighed, "that's a relief, 'cause if you're middle-aged, that makes me _old_."

"I'll try and hold the line for you."

Mark looked over his shoulder again, at the field, and the tables and the people. He turned back and smiled and took a seat on the bench next to him.

"You throw a nice party. He would have liked it. Probably would have snuck a beer out of the cooler while you weren't looking. And if you ask me, he'll always be nineteen."

"I suppose he will . . . as long as there's someone around to remember him."

"As long as there's kids playing baseball, and old guys sitting on park benches." Mark lifted his glass in a half salute. "That's really what we hope for, that life goes on after we're gone, that the people we leave behind are still happy."

Hardcastle looked at him, with one raised eyebrow. "Must be the bench." He shook his head and smiled. "That sounds like something he would have said."


End file.
